


No Planes

by alivehawk1701



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Coming Out, Drug Use, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivehawk1701/pseuds/alivehawk1701
Summary: After catching House and Wilson in a compromising position Cameron resorts to blackmail in the form of a double date with Chase. Of course House and Wilson, having just shared one panicked, don't leave me kiss, aren't ready for the outing nor for the patient that may be pressing charges, or for just how many pills House has been taking . . .
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 89





	1. Tuesday Night

My shoulder hit the door. I dragged my back leg back, obviously I'd over-shot it; and grabbed the cold metal of the handle, yanking the door open. Wilson looked up in surprise. Me running into his door is hard to miss.

"We should just share the same office," I suggested with bitterness, disliking the almost pitying look on Wilson's face as he glanced from me to the door. Gimping across the room I threw my cane on his couch, balancing on one leg as I turned on my heel, sitting down with a sigh, "That way I won't have to stagger my way across the entire hospital to come harass you," I raised both my arms to the back of the couch, leaning my head back.

"You need the exercise," Wilson commented from his desk.

I lifted my head, giving him my best injured expression.

"Well, you know what I mean," he said, shrugging one shoulder, leaning over the pile of papers he was assiduously always working on.

"Are you saying I'm out of shape?" I asked in a hurt voice, regarding him coldly through narrowed eyes.

"No," Wilson responded hotly, pen bouncing in his hand, "You're not out of shape, but exercise is a good idea for everyone. Like drinking plenty of liquids or eating apples,"

"Is this your way of telling me I have a problem? Just say it, I can take it,"

"I'm not telling you anything. I just made a simple comment,"

I let one arm fall in my lap, tilting my head to the side, "Simple to you, hurtful to me,"

"I  _ am _ trying to do some work here," he said, glaring at me before returning his attention to his desk.

"You  _ do _ think I'm fat,"

"I do not!"

"Right. Not so much to qualify for the Big'n Tall store, just enough to be called a little pudgy,"

"House I didn't mean you're fat! You're not, at all, you have a great body, what I meant was your leg could—" he stopped suddenly, no longer holding his pen, having set it down in the middle of some overzealous hand gesture, "—use the exercise," His hand found the pen again, brow furrowed as he went back to his all-important paperwork, shaking his head slightly, then muttered, "You know what I mean,"

Interesting. I paused just long enough that it broke our rhythm. If anyone broke it, it was usually deliberate, and usually me, not Wilson. Maybe this is one of those fishing for compliments things, he says I have a great body and I say thanks, those are nice shoes.

"Hate to let a great body go to waste," I replied after the moment's pause, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees, passing my hand quickly over my aching brow, "Maybe I'm in the wrong business,"

"Yeah, you'd really saves lives as a model,"

"Everyone has to die sometime—might as well be by an overdose of me,"

"Always the humble doctor," Wilson said, catching my attention, "So did you come here for a reason, other than distracting me?"

"Am I that distracting to you? I'm just sitting here," I said innocently.

He almost glared but took a breath instead, "No, really, what is it?"

"Bored," I said impatiently, mind turning to the pill bottle I could feel in my pocket. Seven left, “Just finished a case.”

"And . . . you came here for excitement?"

I came here because I was lonely. Because I have no where else to go. Without a good case my mind's about as open as a glacier. Open and dark. If I don't find  _ something _ to focus on I'm lost.

The increasing amounts of pills I'm taking aren't something. They're not anything. Just there, a ghost over my thoughts, always there. Within seconds of waking up I think about them and seconds before falling asleep they're there. I don't even know when it happened

"If I said yes would you do something exciting?" I asked him.

"Like what?" he asked, almost laughing, eyes still on his desk as his hand scribbled away at something as if I couldn't see he hadn't turned a page or written so much as a line since I'd come in.

What an opportunity. Finding the limits of James Wilson. I took a deep breath, letting it out dramatically, "We could have sex. Finally,"

He smiled, "No, seriously, what?"

I pursed my lips, squinting, "I was serious. We fight way too much not to be sleeping together."

"Is that the rumor?” he glanced up at me, “I dunno House, things get complicated when bodily fluids are exchanged.

"Mutual masterbation?"

"No!"

"I’m circumcised too," he looked up, shocked, “If you were wondering,” I sighed and reached for my cane, standing it up on the floor to spin it on the ground between my knees, "You're no fun at all,"

"I am the worst,” he agreed, “Are you really that bored?”

“Yes,” I met his eyes hesitantly. 

Wilson stared calmly and steadily at me from across the room, with the kind of look he gave when he knew something was bothering me. He's not as stupid as everyone else. Did he know how annoying it was to be stared at like that? Stared at to death by eyes that have no business being that consoling. He must be aware of it. 

My stomach turned, it's amazing how you can start to feel sick when threatened by something as serious as a sincere conversation. "I'm going to go get some coffee," I said abruptly, getting up as gracefully as I could. I moved toward the door, looking over my shoulder, "Need the caffeine. Haven't eaten today. Too much excitement,"

"House," Wilson shouted as I stopped, leaning heavily on my cane but not turning around. I heard his chair being pushed back, pen hitting the desk.

"Wilson?" I responded in a falsely sweet voice, turning to face him. He was interrupting my quick, limping exit.

He put both hands on his hips, looking like he had something really good to say but just couldn't say it. What a time to start hesitating before talking to me.

"I'm going to be leaving soon," he said, meeting my eyes, "We could get some coffee then, or if you're hungry more of a dinner thing, or coffee and dinner thing,"

I was hungry. I thought of saying no. Then a brief but disquieting image of pale TV light and a bottle of pills spilled across my coffee table in my dark apartment played grimly through my head—a forewarning of what my night would most likely be like. 

“I could eat,” I said.

I waited by the door, resting all my weight on my good leg. He took his jacket off the back of his chair, tugging it on and straightening the collar. Wilson is a contradiction. From the outside he is calm, reassuring, even mello, at apparent ease even in the most stressful of situations. Some people might say that's why I hang around him so much. But just underneath the shining exterior is the asbestos lined, quivering innards of our heroic oncologist, wound up so tight it's a wonder he doesn't snap. I wonder what would happen if he did, I mused, at the same moment he turned to look at me, "Ready?"

"Yeah," I affirmed, turning around and quickly pulling open the door. Wilson automatically reached above me and grabbed it to let me through.

Wilson waved goodbye to the nurse at the desk on the way out. He took the time to be friendly to people. Even when he was hurting. It hasn't exactly been easy for Wilson since the divorce. We’d been here before though. Not that I was much of a help then. Or now. Didn’t like seeing him sad. And he'd moved out. I was supposed to be glad he'd moved on, that was the point, pick yourself up, don’t sleep on couches.

But I miss him.

He followed close at my heels outside to the parking lot. I stopped, "Where are you going?"

"Where am I going? Where are you going?"

"To your car?"

"I . . . don't have it today," he said grudgingly, eyes averted.

"Why not?"

"I borrowed it," he answered, "To my ex-wife,"

"Alright, so we take my bike,"

I turned back toward the handicap spaces, shaking my head, "Why does she have your car?"

"It's—"

"Complicated?" I offered.

He sighed, "It's . . . never-ending," he said.

I reached the bike, tossing my cane into my other hand to secure it on the side.

"That's an understatement," I said, trying not to look at the sad look on his face, I knew it was there. It was always there when he talked about her.

I'd been so convinced he'd been the one cheating. So like him to move too fast and latch on, or insert into, a vulnerable someone. I just had to feel like a jerk after finding out it was her all along. She was the one that hurt him. Cheating on him not only made her a bitch but an idiot too. She didn’t know how good she had it. But then maybe he was an idiot for marrying her.

I got on my bike, grimacing as I got my leg in the right position, pain flashing red in front of my eyes, "You'll like this place," I twisted around and grabbed the helmet, holding it out to him. He was lingering on the blacktop, running a hand over the back of his neck, "Problem?" I asked, helmet weighing in my hand.

"No," he said quickly, taking the helmet. He put his right hand on my shoulder, swinging his leg over with undoubtedly more grace than I had. After putting on the helmet he put both hands on my sides, "Let's just go,"

"Don't fall off," I told him harshly, revving the motor then lifting my left leg off the ground and taking off across the parking lot.

I'd never established if he didn't like the bike because it had been his money spent to buy it or if he just didn't like the bike itself. Pointless argument anyway; who doesn't like motorcycles?

Maybe he didn’t want to ride with me. It’s one thing for Cameron to be on the back of my bike, but Wilson is a whole other thing. Stupid but true. The fragile male ego is so fragile. I had the benefit of not caring what people thought about me or whose body was next to mine. Maybe the  _ in public _ part makes a slight difference. At home, watching television, Wilson and I stretch out on the couch together, one of the several benefits of watching movies with Wilson. It’s comfortable. Nice.

I pushed the bike just enough to prove my point. Maybe to prove I could drive it. Not that Wilson thought I couldn't. Nonetheless, his hands tightened on my sides. Endorphins released into the brain during times of stress or danger, let's say, like when you're traveling at high speeds on a motorcycle, create feelings of excitement, they make you feel good. If Wilson's brain was working right he'd probably be feeling them right about now. I hoped he was. 

Without the helmet the wind blew cold against my skin, through my hair, filling my lungs to the brim with each breath. Normally my mind would be for the most part occupied with whatever case I was working on, but seeing as the case was over I found myself instead thinking about the fact that Wilson had never been on my bike. As I said, Cameron had been. I don't think she liked it very much.

On the road, with the cars zooming all around us, Wilson's hands inched almost all the way around my waist. He was warm against my back. Distracting. Each time I shifted I could feel his arms around me. His hands were on my stomach. To pass an extremely slow vehicle I zipped between two cars, not nearly as dangerous as some of the other stuff I've done but enough for Wilson to crush my ribs.

Ride's over. We were there. I slowed and pulled to a curb.

"We're here," I said over my shoulder, cutting the bike's motor and putting my feet down.

"Here?" Wilson repeated, getting off, taking off the helmet, "House, what is this?"

I retrieved my cane, leg throbbing, "What does it look like?"

"A strip club," he answered exasperated.

I squinted and turned to look at the array of neon signs, the lack of windows, the overwhelming feeling that it was less a building and more of a hole to crawl into, "I think you're right,"

Looking around with wide eyes he took two steps closer to me, "Why did you bring me to a strip club?" his voice was hushed and panicked as he leaned towards me, two brutish looking guys passing by on their way inside, a faint trace of smoke, urine and a dull beat of music emanated from the opened door.

"I thought you'd like it," I said.

He looked speechless, mouth hanging open. He shook his head, neon lights showing in his eyes as he looked to the side.

"You said dinner," I said, putting a hand on my bike to steady myself. He looked almost scared, "They've got great nachos,"

He nodded, "Right, and what? Do they come with a lap dance?"

"Depends on how good of one you want,"

"House . . ." he said, backing up a few steps, running a hand through his hair.

"What?"

"I don't want to go to a strip club!" he stopped, running a hand over his mouth, looking nervously toward the door, trying not to yell, "How could you think this was a good idea?"

I paused, watching him. Obviously I was wrong. The bike threatened to sway under my hand. I closed my eyes, hand running down my thigh which was throbbing dully, "I was trying to be nice,"

He looked up at me from where he'd been staring at the asphalt. The hurt look on his face, and what looked like shock, made me look away.

"Fine," I sighed, "We can go,"

I got back on my bike, made more difficult now with the increased pain in my leg. I wanted pills. But driving and Vicodin don't mix. Anyways, if I took them and crashed I'd hurt Wilson. Think of all the cancer patients he'd never be to give teddy-bears to.

Wilson said nothing. He just wanted out of here. He got on the back, holding his hands lightly on my sides. I paused, wondering if I should say something before the sound of the bike drowned out all other sounds. But I couldn't think of anything. That's how good I am. I can find a snide remark for any situation, for anyone, but when it comes to just saying something, anything comforting, I can't.

I drove to the hotel he was staying at, stopping in front, cutting the motor. I got off after him but didn't grab my cane. Just used the bike. I brought my eyes hesitantly to his.

The sudden silence seemed almost overwhelming. A gathering wind was blowing through the darkened, nearly empty hotel parking lot and played with Wilson's hair. His collar was askew from the ride.

"I didn't," I cleared my throat, "I didn't mean to . . ."

He nodded slightly, "But you did," he said calmly, then looked up, "Do you ever think about what you're doing . . . or do you just do it?"

"Is this the part where I lie and say, yes of course I do?"

Wilson sighed and shook his head, anger straining his voice, "I don't know why I actually fool myself into thinking I can have a real conversation with you," he stepped onto the curb, "I appreciate the gesture but I’m not interested," he turned and started toward his door.

I couldn't let him leave like this. Damnit. Before I could think about it, proving Wilson right in my total lack of thinking at times, I caught his arm in my hand, nearly falling over in the process. He braced his arm against my weight, shaking his head, "House, just let me go,"

Pain. The leg. Idiot. I held onto his arm, waiting for it to subside, " _ Why _ are you so upset?"

"You're the diagnostician, you figure it out,"

"Because you . . . don't like strip clubs?"

"I don't," he said defensively, " _ Not _ everyone does,"

"But you're mad at  _ me. _ I didn't make you not like strippers,"

"I'm not doing this now," he said, "Now get your hand off of me or I'll get it off myself,"

I didn't move my hand. "I actually want to talk for once and you say ' _ not  _ now'" I exclaimed in irritation, hating that he was running away when he was supposed to be the brave one, "I don’t get it. I thought it’d be nice to spend time together. Am I wrong? I haven't eaten anything all day, and just missed dinner, thank  _ you  _ very much."

"Yet more evidence toward that fact that all you think about is yourself. Do you ever actually think about me? How I'm feeling about something? Does that even, for a moment, come into the equation?" he sighed, eyes closing for a moment, "Sometimes I feel so, so close to you, and other times you feel so far away."

This was really bothering him. Maybe I am that selfish. And when it comes to putting on a face, Wilson is a champion. The amazing thing about Wilson is how incredible he is at deception. Maybe he had learned something from me after all. At that thought I felt an unexpected queasiness in my stomach. I didn't want Wilson to be anything like me. I swallowed, biting at my lower lip then taking a breath, "I'm not . . . totally detached."

He looked totally unconvinced, even a little annoyed. I met his eyes, finding it somehow easier than talking at the moment. If I could somehow convey what I wanted to say just with my eyes. it'd save a lot of time and the awful task of finding actual words for what I felt. Because somehow It all felt more urgent now, standing outside his hotel on a Tuesday night, I don't know why, like time was running out.

Wilson looked back at me, unsteadily at first. Fear. He was afraid. I looked deeper. One of the first things you learn as a doctor is that you don't always see what's right in front of you. It can be right there and you'd miss it because you weren't looking close enough, because you took something for granted, or negated the possibility altogether. I'm not a good friend. I never said I was. But I still paid attention to him. Depended on him. So why was I surprised that when I looked into Wilson's eyes I saw affection?

I licked my licks, lowering my eyes, throat tight, finding it hard to concentrate, "I didn't know you felt that way," I looked back up, "Maybe I’ve been a little distracted lately," I narrowed my eyes, thinking about the pills, "But I'm not a mind reader."

"I know, I know," he said, "I just . . . really feel like I need a friend right now."

"I'm here," I explained, "And?"

"And then you take me to a strip club?" he almost laughed, paused, "I used to think I could depend on you. I thought you would be there," he took a long breath," he sighed, "Maybe you can’t, maybe I'm just . . . "

His eyes turned up to the sky and shook his head. He looked like he was close to tears.

I raised my hand to his other arm, feeling him brace himself to handle the shift in my movements without my cane. I don't know what to say. I feel like my mouth is stitched shut. I don't know what else he wants. I'm out of options. After all that's happened, after all the times I'd fallen short, been selfish or just not been there at all, maybe I was going to lose Wilson. And maybe I'd just come to realize how terrible that would be. Fact was I couldn't speak, not sincerely, not warmly, not like he needed me to. And in a very cold world, where nothing really mattered, he's the one source of warmth I have.

"I . . . don't know how to help you," I said finally, feeling a shadow of fear darken my thoughts. He was standing close enough that when the night breeze ran past it my nostrils flared at his familiar smell.

"Yeh," he said, taking an unsteady breath. The cold had reddened the end of his nose, making him sniff as a few strands of dark hair blew across his brow, "House . . ." he started, eyes barely meeting mine, flickering from the ground to me, "I can’t . . ."

As the words left his lips I closed the distance between us. I shifted my weight to my good leg, heart pounding in my ears, breath short as I extended my unsteady, almost clumsy hand to touch his face. Wilson didn't move as I settled my fingers gently on his jaw-line. I licked my lips, his skin pleasantly warm against my hand. I could feel his pulse throbbing at his neck.

I was waiting for him to react. Wilson looked down, his right hand rising slowly up my arm, exhaling slowly as one of his hands came to my chest. For a second I wasn't sure if he would push me away. His fingers worked at the folds in my coat, gripping it tightly. This was nothing. So far just touching. No harm in that. Nothing. It's nothing.

Wilson always seemed so untouchable. He's just as smart as I am, enough to make it interesting but not as rivals. At the hospital, in everyday life he's warm and caring in every way I'm not. It's not like women don't notice him. They do. And I notice when they notice. When they say he has a nice smile I agree that he does. But I noticed it first. I could watch him, for whatever period of time, and call it professional, like, boy, Wilson's got a nice ass, how interesting. These are usually classified as happy feelings.

My reaction to these feelings? Push him away and see if it works. Say terrible things and see if he flinches. And when he doesn't it means something. Though I'm not sure what that  _ something  _ is. Or was. I can't mess with this. This can't change. I need Wilson.

But here, now, damn it, it's different. He's real. He's warm. And all I could think about lately was losing him. And the worst part is I would let it happen. I'd realize one day he was gone and I'd done nothing to keep him here. Like he is now. He's here.

I slowly leaned closer to him, eyes on his, waiting for him to stop me. Come on Wilson, stop me. I moved closer, enough to smell him when I inhaled. My eyes fell shut as I breathed. I opened them for a moment, looking down to his lips then back to his eyes. He did nothing. Still closer. Our lips were mere inches apart, his breath hot over my mouth.

My eyes slowly fell shut as I brushed my lips gently against his, feeling his lips move slightly under mine before I pulled back. I felt his hand move behind my head, through my hair that I wished I'd washed, and pull my lips back to his.

He kissed me. I let him. When I felt his tongue push past my teeth I let him. When a sudden flare of arousal coursed through me I kissed back harder. I slid my tongue deeper into his mouth, revelling in the taste. God it tasted good. The warm wetness of his tongue made me moan. My legs were starting to shake, making it hard to stand, I let both my hands fall to his hips and I dragged him toward me. Wilson kissed more forcefully, the wet smack of our lips seemed overly loud in the quiet parking lot, and I heard a groan resonate from the back of his throat as the undeniable hardness of my erection strained against the inside of my jeans, causing me to desperately press into him as his hips rose into mine.

Too much. What’s happening?

Too fast. Stop.

I gasped, jerking away abruptly, taking a panicked step backward, my bad leg buckling under me.

"Damnit," Wilson swore, grabbing for my arm to help me.

He was trying to catch his breath. Not doing too well. I was doing much the same. Standing, at least at this point, is the most important, just keep standing. He stood and held onto one of my arms as I gritted my teeth against the pain, feeling like an idiot for almost falling over, "I'm so sorry," he said, one hand went to his forehead, "I can't believe I—oh god—"

"Wilson," I snapped, stopping him, looking anxiously down each side of the street. I bit at my lip, trying to think, but stopped, panicked, tasting Wilson over my lips, not brave enough to look at him, my heart beat wildly in my chest, resonating in my groin.

"Sorry about dinner," I said, taking my arm back, limping down from the curb, "I have to go,"

I got back to my apartment in record time, breaking my previous 9.2 minute record. My leg barely bent going up my stairs, pain enough now to make my eyes water, clenching my jaw so hard I thought my teeth would break. Never had turning a key and opening a door been so difficult. Or taken so long—seconds wasted.

My helmet crashed to the floor, great for my piercing headache. I reached into my jeans pocket, the top of the pill bottle clattering to the floor, popping two in my mouth, letting them sit on my tongue just long enough for the bitter taste to wash over my tastebuds, then swallowed.

These pills aren't fast enough. I need to stop feeling. I ditched my coat, not bothering to turn on any lights, and started pacing, forcing air into my chest. Waiting. Waiting for the god damn pills to take effect.

Anger. Anger at what? Angry at not stopping myself when I should have? Anger at how much I hadn't wanted to leave him? Anger at imagining in one gasping, over-stimulated moment what would have happened if he'd asked me into his hotel room? Anger at being angry? Angry at myself for running away like that?

Not fast enough. It's been too long. I can't even tell I took them. I need more than pills. It hurt. My leg's hurting, I don't have a choice. I just want it to stop, damn it, for once leave me alone.

Morphine. I had a stash. For emergencies. Like now, now is an emergency.

I resisted, running a shaking hand through my hair, trying to get my head to stop pounding. It was on top of the bookshelf. It was practically screaming at me. I'm shaking too much. Doesn't take a doctor to know why. Tremors ran over my shoulders. Damnit. Take the drugs. Take them. Nothing else helps, you know that. Just take them. They're good, they help, take them. You'll take them in the end, you always do.

I stopped pacing, eyes squeezed shut, still not able to breathe. I can't. I can't do this. My eyes open and focus on my bookshelf. Next thing I know things are crashing down and I'm sitting on my couch, beat up tin box thrown open next to me. God I need this. I need it. Why am I so slow? My own shaking hands make the needle a virtual toy in my hand, I can't keep it straight. Luckily my veins are visible, risen under my skin. Any vein. Doesn't matter.

The needle plunged in my arm, my eyes close as I push the syringe down. Take the needle out, let it fall to the floor. Fall back on the couch with a sigh, mouth open, taking deep breaths. Oxygenating the blood, process the blood faster, feel it faster. My eyes fluttered open as I stopped shaking.

And then it all drops away from me. A dark tide washes over every limb, into my eyes, mouth, pulling my limp body across a muddy shore, sinking down into dark deep waters. Time passed. The phone rang. Sounded a thousand miles away, somewhere above the water.

Answering machine will get it.

"House?" Wilson. I knew he'd call. I know him. Knew him. Thought I knew him. I wanted to tell him it was okay. Nothing hurts anymore, I'm fine.

"I know you're there . . . pick up," his voice continued through the small speakers on my phone. Sound of him sighing. "If you need me, my help or anything, call me, okay? I'll . . . just call back later to check on you,"

*click*

Waited. Heard nothing more. So high. I could barely feel my arms and legs.

I didn't want to talk to him. I just want to talk to him. I'd tell him sorry for being such an ass and running away like that. I'd tell him to leave me the hell alone for once. Tell him to stop freaking out every time I take an aspirin. I'd tell him I don't want to be alone anymore. I'd tell him I'm not gay. Tell him I don’t know what I am. I'd tell him I never use the word love. That I don't believe in love. That it's been years and he hasn't said so much as a word. Tell him he's an idiot for getting into this. Tell him that he doesn't want to be close to me. Tell him I'm nothing but a washed up junkie, I don't even think I can love.

An hour later the answering machine picked up another message but I fell asleep before I could listen, only vaguely aware of what was going on, not sure it wasn't all a dream.


	2. Jack of Clubs

"House!"

I froze, shoes squeaking to a halt against the smooth hospital floor, "This is a tough one, hold on let me guess," I covered my eyes with one hand, "Shrill voice, loud heels, no lab coat thus above any common lackey . . ." Her shoe tapped methodically on the floor, "I'm going to guess . . ." I turned, greeted by her always cheerful, violent face, "Cuddy,"

"House, this is the last time,"

"Thanks, that's nice of you. I hate getting bitched at so early in the morning,"

"For one, it's 11:30, and two, I am getting so tired of saying the same damn thing to you every time you're late that there just might not be a next time, got it?"

"I have complete confidence in my team," I said in a sincere voice, "They've just grown up so fast," I put a hand over my heart.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, fluttering heavy eyelashes, looking back at me with maybe an ounce of recovered control, "Do your job. Be on time. I'm too busy, everyone else is too busy, to deal with you right now,"

She stormed off. I smiled.

I limped to the conference room, pushing open the door with my shoulder, "Okay, anyone keeping count?" I asked, entering the room, "I'm trying to see how many times I can be late before Cuddy gets really  _ really _ mad—she's got extraordinary patience,"

Chase, Cameron, and Foreman, all seated around the table, a modest scattering of half-eaten muffins strewn across the table, weren't looking at me, but rather behind me. Following suit I turned and saw Wilson standing at the board, a few barely recognizable words scrawled across the board.

"Wilson," I said, my center of gravity swaying for a moment, "Is this a good day? Someone diagnosed with terminal cancer yet?"

"No," he responded over one shoulder, "Someone has unexplained seizures, the charts there on the table if you care to look at it,"

I groaned.

"And, as of a few hours ago," he continued without pause, "has begun showing signs of pulmonary hypertension, we started her on Prostacylin, only minimal improvement, her blood gas levels are still too low for comfort,"

"When did she come in?" I asked.

"Last night, early this morning,"

"And you're here because . . ."

"Because you're not," Wilson retorted, swinging the marker in his hand, "And besides, we haven't ruled out cancer entirely,"

"My alarm clock broke, or was stolen, either one, I would have gotten here,"

"Eventually,"

It became obvious all of a sudden that no one was staring at the board anymore. In fact, when I turned around every one of their bright young faces were fixed on Wilson and me.

I looked away from Wilson, impatient, reaching to grab the file from the table before turning to go into my office, "Well, don't let me interrupt,"

Another boring case. Hardly enough to get up for. A couple more hours sleep would have been great. Nice, peaceful, drugged sleep with no dreams to bother me. No dreams. Just peace. Instead I'm here, Wilson's here, we're all here.

Coffee sat on my desk. I cast a leery eye through the glass to Wilson who had returned to the board. Sitting down I pulled the top off the cup. Condensation from the steam dripped off the lid, leaving a ring where I'd set it on the file.

I leaned back in my chair and rested the coffee on my leg. The heat felt good. I'd opened my eyes this morning on the couch, alarm clock going off in the next room for God knows how long, and my leg had already been in pain, like it'd never stopped. I'd glanced briefly at the flashing red light of my answering machine on the way out the door, vaguely acknowledging there were five new messages, but instead of listening to them, not that I didn't know who they were from, I popped a pill and closed the door.

Everything inside of me was screaming to take another pill, the morphine last night had made it worse, I'm not an idiot. The urge pulled at me, it felt like my heart was slowly being ripped out. But it was still nice of him to get me coffee.

The coffee hit my tongue like battery acid. The bitter taste lingered even after I'd put it back down on my desk. I looked up at the sound of the other doors closing and saw Wilson on the other side of the glass. The sun shined through the half-slit blinds in my office, casting a golden hue over everything. It looked like he hadn't slept. Coming through the door he only met my eyes for a second, cleared his throat and walked slowly up to my desk.

"You look more than just tired, House," he said carefully, putting his hands on the back of the chair in front of my desk.

I looked down, eyes vaguely focused on the file in front of me, choosing to ignore the insinuation in his voice, "My leg hurt," I said, holding the cup of scalding coffee in my hand, watching steam rise off the dark liquid, "A lot,"

"I think . . . some of that is my fault," he said in a weary voice. God I hated this. Now he'd want to talk. I didn't want to talk.

"My leg hurts because it hurts," I repeated slowly, standing up restlessly, taking my coffee with me, "If you want to be blamed for something blame yourself for lying to your best friend,"

"What did I lie about?" he questioned, standing up as well, then when I looked unconvinced he continued, "About being—" he pointed to his chest.

"You weren't entirely honest,"

" _ I _ wasn't being honest?"

"You ambushed me."

"You kissed me."

Paused. Recollect myself. "You tricked me."

"How?!"

"You've been married three times."

"I've been divorced three times."

"Cuddy—"

"Is a friend,  _ just _ a friend,.

"The nurses—"

"Some people actually talk to people they work with."

I stopped. The room grew quiet. "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked after a long enough pause for the heat of the cup to burn my fingers before I rearranged them.

"Why didn't you tell  _ me _ ? You started it!" he said angrily. I didn't stop staring at him. "Maybe you should stop yelling at me and take a look at yourself," his chest was heaving with each breath. He was right. "Look, whatever happened, is happening, has been happening—this friendship means something to me . . . I don't want to risk losing you,"

"You're not losing me," I said slowly.

He was silent. Hands in the pockets of his lab coat, eyes taken aback, like they didn't want to be hopeful, not again. He cleared his throat, licked his lips, and looked away for a moment, "Half the time I don't know whether you hate me or like me,"

I frowned, confused.

"Sometimes people need proof, House . . . words aren't enough,"

The arm with the coffee in it lowered till I set the cup on my desk. My head hurt. My leg hurt. And I hadn't thought that Wilson wouldn't know how I feel. I don't know how I feel half the time, he shouldn't feel left out. But pain is pain. I have enough of it. I care about Wilson. Asking him if he cares about me has a possibility of two answers. One hurts more than the other.

I took a careful breath, finding it hard to speak, the words finally finding their way to my lips like from across a great distance, "You're all I care about," I'd said it. "And I didn't want you to move out,"

"So . . . you . . .?"

"I kissed you . . . remember?" He met my eyes and took a step forward because I couldn't. My left leg supported most of my weight as the cane braced my right, my hand tight around my cane as he stood in front of me.

"So where does that leave us?" he asked.

"In a room with glass walls,"

Suddenly over Wilson's shoulder I saw a very unwelcome sight, Cuddy, standing outside my door. Wilson saw my eyes redirect and looked over his shoulder. When he looked back at me a pleading, impatient look came over his face, eyes dilated, and I saw him suppress a sigh. He looked incredibly sexy. The door pushed open and I felt a flash of anger at Cuddy, worst timing in the history of women with bad timing.

"Well, here's a sight," she said, half in the door, like her feet couldn't stay on the ground for more than a few moments, "Two doctors with so many other,  _ better _ , things to do than just standing around,"

Perfect. Well, at least things were consistent. Cuddy annoyed the hell out of me. Wilson fell back a step, trying to not look involved, as I picked up the file from my desk and limped forward a few steps.

"Yeah but I didn't stop for breakfast this morning like you did, big waste of time, considering the line at Jerry's Donuts in the morning you must have spent twenty minutes there and back,"

She looked startled. Deduction was easy when jelly donuts were involved. I could just see her trying to eat it neatly, but nope, a stain at either end of her mouth, vague granted, but there. Not to mention the purple spot on her collar, hastily wiped at with water and bathroom soap.

"Don't make me say the words," she warned, the door now being held open by her shoulder as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. She did this just to make my life hell. She enjoyed it. Wilson had a hand over his mouth. Smiling. Bastard.

"Mystery intrigues,"

"Clinic duty," She'd said it anyway. "And you" she said toward Wilson who looked up in surprise as she swept her hands out the door, "I'm breaking you boys up, back to work,"

She was out the door, loudly stamping down the hallway before I could glare at her properly. Clinic duty it was.

I went down to the clinic. Wilson and I parted ways. Somehow things were resolved. Somewhat. Kind of. Vaguely. For now. Of course the somewhat, kind of, vaguely, for now, kind of resolved situation is distracting. Suddenly it was all Wilson. All I could think about. Limping to the clinic, grabbing a chart, I was thinking about being with him again. It took me too long to figure that out. I was obsessive by nature. Things dominate my thoughts. Pills and Wilson. What a great combination. I vaguely wondered if he was just as distracted as I was. If he was thinking about me as much as I was thinking about him. It didn't really matter. It made me happy to think about him.

Until exam room two, of course.

"My foot hurts,"

I snapped my gloves on and sat down on the stool with a sigh, "Any idea why?"

The patient shrugged, foot hanging off the exam table with about as much expression as his face had, which overall looked as blank as the etched face on a jack of clubs.

"Could be the nail right here,"

"What?"

"There's a nail embedded in your foot,"

"No way!"

"Well, it does take an extraordinary amount of self-awareness to realize the excruciating pain in your foot might have something to so with the two inch piece of metal that most likely isn't supposed to be there,"

The jack of clubs look altered enough to look something like shock, "But it's a nail! It's been in my foot for how long? How could I not notice it?"

"I'd rather not contemplate the answer to that question, my life is so grey and hopeless as it is,"

The patent nodded, affirmative to me, then shook his head, negative to his foot, "So you can get it out, right?"

"The nail is wedged between the second and third metatarsal," I wheeled forward and grabbed his foot, ignoring his gasp of surprise as I inspected the bloodied area, at the center of which was the nail in question, "It hasn't hit anything too important, otherwise you would've left a trail of blood from wherever it is you limped from—just need pliers,"

I wheeled over to the phone on the wall, snapping my gloves off, clearing my throat as I picked up the receiver, "Dr. Wilson is needed in exam room two, tell him to bring a pliers,"

"Wha—" the patient gawked, though still oddly oblivious to pain, "You're calling another doctor? I thought you said it would be easy!"

"Nothing's ever easy," I interposed sharply, glad it made him stop whining. In the pause, as the awful truth no doubt sunk into his shallow heart, I took out the bottle in my pocket and tossed back a pill.

The door opened a moment later, "House?" Wilson stepped halfway in, "Are you serious? Pliers?"

"Show'em kid," I said, tucking the bottle back in my pocket. The patient held his foot up.

"Oh, jeez, is that a—" Wilson's eyes locked onto the foot with a mix of horror and interest.

"It's not a toothpick. But I wanted a second opinion, just to be sure,"

Wilson blinked. He stepped forward nonetheless, gently taking the boy's foot in his hands, "When did this happen?" he asked him.

"I have no clue,"

I rolled my eyes, clasping my hands between my knees, "What did you take?"

"Huh?"

"What drugs?"

"I didn't take anything!"

"The amount of healing in your foot is consistent with the third or fourth day after the initial injury and, seeing as it is Monday, you would've had a nice long weekend to bum around with little idea of where you were, let alone what nail you stepped on recently," I stood up, "And unless your intellectual or emotional capacity really is as hopelessly dense as a tree-stump, there's no way you wouldn't be in terrible pain right now. You took something then. You took something now,"

Wilson had his arms crossed in front of him, looking up at the ceiling.

"You're going to tell my parents," the patient moaned.

"We're bound by confidentiality laws," Wilson told him, "We can't tell your parents," the kid sighed in relief, "But," Wilson continued, "If you continue your reckless," his eyes met mine over the patient's shoulder, "careless behaviour, they most likely will find out," he paused, "You stepped on a nail and didn't notice for three days,"

Wilson accepted the look of grief on the kid's face, giving a moment for him to reflect, if it was even possible. It would have been more than I would have given him. Though it was still beyond me how he hadn't noticed, at all, when he'd stepped on the nail or anytime afterwards. And worse, it was the most interesting part to me.

Wilson put gloves on, taking a syringe out of the drawer, talking in his calm, talking-to-patients-and-lost-animals voice, "This isn't painkillers, it'll just numb your foot so I can take it out, like Novocain for your foot,"

The patient leaned back on his elbows, eyes closed, "I'm an idiot," he sighed, his unfocused eyes glassy with tears that he tried to hide as Wilson applied the anaesthetic.

"People can do dumb things and not be idiots," Wilson said calmingly. He was silent as he maneuvered the pliers around the head of the nail, careful even though the kid's foot was numb, "Ready?"

"Yeah,"

Wilson pulled it out, short and sweet, applying gauze as it started to bleed. The nail clanked dully as it hit the metal tray, "Feeling okay?" Wilson asked the kid, reaching for the tape.

"Think so," he said, looking down at his foot with a grimace, "You know, you're a lot nicer than he is," he jerked his chin in my direction.

"I know," Wilson said, hand smoothing over the bandage, eyes on me.

"Yeah, but I only cause emotional pain," I told the patient who was distracted enough by Wilson finishing his bandage that he might not have even been listening to me. My eyes were fixed on Wilson's hands, their careful, tender movements were almost mesmerizing, "Catch Dr. Wilson on a bad day, he's violent,"

"Yes, because I make it my business to beat up obsessive blue-eyed infectious disease specialists on a daily basis,"

"Oncologists fight dirty," I said, only slightly to the patient, "At war with tumours, at war with the world,"

"Just try and corner me,"

"Threats are great but I've got simple facts on my side; I'm taller than you,"

"Do I look scared?"

"Um . . . " I heard in the background, we both turned to the patient who was looking confused, "My foot . . ."

"Right," Wilson said, snapping out of it suddenly, embarrassed, "Sorry, uh, you'll need a tetanus shot. Stop by the nurse's station on the way out and they'll get you one,"

The kid nodded, one eye narrowed as he peered at us under a raised eyebrow, "Thanks,"

"No problem," Wilson said, smiling politely at the patient, then frowned like he was missing someone. "Can you walk?" he asked the kid as he slid off the table.

"I got this far," Wilson took his elbow nonetheless, "I'm cool," the kid said as way of dismissal.

The patient left. Door closed. Wilson paused, his mouth fell open, "I . . . just took a nail out of someone's foot and it wasn't even my patient; something's wrong with this picture,"

"Got you down here didn't it?"

"Don't worry, I'm only mildly grossed out," he said, taking his gloved off and tossing them. He turned back to me, putting his hands on his hips with a deep breath, "So I'm guessing that wasn't the only reason you called me down here?"

"Not quite," I said, taking a step forward, hanging onto the last syllable, "But it was exciting wasn't it? I liked the part where it gushed blood the best; so entertaining,"

"I can't believe this," he sighed, turning to the sink to wash his hands, pushing the sleeves of his lab coat up roughly, "I have piles of work to do but instead of doing them I'm down here saving irresponsible kids from tetanus and hanging out in a small exam room with you," he scrubbed vigorously at his hands, not facing me, "Who either has it in for me or actually really likes me, oddly enough either one feels extraordinarily alike, all the while hiding from Cuddy who thinks  _ I'm _ the good one that always does what he's told even though for the last twenty four hours all I can think about is kissing you again—oh, no, I don't have issues, I'm just complicated," he dried his hands hastily.

"You're talking really fast," I pointed out to him.

"Believe me, I'm trying to slow down but it's not working,"

"Try breathing,"

"I'm breathing,"

"Good, now look at me,"

"House . . ." his eyes wandered, nervous energy rolling off of him. I couldn't stand it anymore. Either he would rush out of here or I would limp out of here to escape a serious turn in the conversation. Either one I didn't want to happen.

Dropping my cane against the wall I decisively clasped both my hands on either side of his face. His deep brown eyes jerked to mine, blinking anxiously. He shouldn't have kissed me back the first time. That made this okay. Made this possible. Made this undeniable. He shouldn't have come down here. I wanted him down here. No one was watching. We were alone. I wasn't in control, not any more than he was. He was denying it, I was denying it. I'm tired of denying it.

Pulling him roughly toward me I caught his lips in mine, feeling both of his arms wrap around me. The only sound now was the wet smack of our lips, the sucking, breathless sound of kissing trapped in a small room. Who knew his energy could be diverted this way? I slid my hands down his shoulders, fingers spread, dragging them down the white cloth of his lab coat, pulling him against me. Unfamiliar curves, lack of curves, filled my senses. Muscled back, solid waist, smaller hips. My hands under his lab coat, searching for skin. Tried to drag his shirt from his pants. Wilson broke the kiss and began trailing kisses down my neck. Nuzzling, sucking, biting my skin, his hands spread across my chest as his rapid breath filled my ears.

I heard several gasps escape my lips. God it felt good, so good, Wilson—I moaned but bit it back. My arousal throbbed through me, sudden and intense. This was for last night. For me running away. Picking up where we left off. I didn't know what to do with my hands but it didn't matter because in the next second my back hit the blinds. Almost hurt. The noise startled Wilson, he looked up, face flushed, "You okay?" I nodded. His hands seemed to have unconsciously started to move down my waist, making me pause, casting my eyes upward to the blank ceiling, trying to swallow past an almost suffocating lump in my throat. His hands touched the skin of my stomach and I shivered. His fingers started working at my belt. My eyes closed.

Wilson kissing me was one thing. Kissing was one thing. This. Where this was going. This was different. Not just kissing. Wilson undoing my pants. His hands undoing the button of my jeans, pulling down the fly. But I didn't stop him. I felt his hand slide under the hem of my boxers and I wasn't the least bit prepared for it. Gasped, almost jumped as his hand wrapped around my hard cock. One of my hands shot to his in panic.

"House . . ." I heard him say in a throaty voice, "I—"

"Yes," I affirmed even though he hadn't asked it. His hand, his fingers, lost track of what they were doing, I could barely even breath. My head fell back against the blinds as Wilson went to his knees in front of me. Then his tongue was moving hot and wet over, around, and up my exposed cock. My hands drew into fists, I almost slammed them against the glass but stopped myself by grabbing his hair as I felt myself slip into his mouth. So hot, pulsing, and wet. I could feel the hum of his moans all the way up my spine. I want this fast, want it slow. I want it to last, I want to feel good, feel good without drugs, for as long as I can.

"Uh . . . Wilson, oh god . . . " I heard myself plead, not believing it was me. My voice was low, begging, breathless. My hips rose against him, thrusting myself into his mouth as he moved, couldn't help it, hands tangled in his hair. His hands were gripping my hips so hard I knew they'd leave bruises. His tongue circled and flicked and I started to shake. Heart pounded like thunder in my ears as Wilson drew me in and out of his mouth.

No. Not thunder. My eyes shot open. Knocking.

"Dr. House?" just outside the door.

Cameron.

We jerked apart from each other, Wilson shot to his feet as the door started to open, "There's a—" she started to say as Wilson fell away from me, his hands leaving me a fraction of a moment before her eyes focused on us.

Cameron was standing frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. She'd gone as pale as a ghost. And the door was wide open. Wide open to the clinic, to everyone.

"Either close the door or get out!" I shouted at her, franticly buckling my belt with horribly shaking hands. She chose the latter, so fast the door slammed shut.

"Oh my God," Wilson was saying, panicked breaths catching in his throat, "Oh God," he brought both hands to his head, sliding one over his mouth which looked wet and swollen.

I closed my eyes, still up against the blinds, my bad leg bent and unsupportive beneath me, "Christ . . ." What had just happened?

"You have to talk to her," Wilson said suddenly.

"What?" I responded, pushing myself from the glass, "Why me?" I needed my cane. Where the fuck was my cane? It was lying in the middle of the floor. Knocked over. Damn it.

"Because," he said with emphasis, dropping his hands with an exasperated breath, "Because you know her better, because I'm totally freaking out right now,"

My eyes dropped to the floor. I'm not talking to her. No way. I focused on my cane lying on the floor. No way.

"House . . ." Wilson said. "If one of us doesn't, if you don't, she might talk to Cuddy before we have a chance to explain—"

"To explain what exactly?" I almost shouted, "There's no way to explain it except that we were—"

"We were being stupid—" he stopped, trying to be calm, "Careless, oh my god, you need to talk to Cameron,"

I chanced looking up at him. He bent and got my cane from the floor, handing it to me. His shirt tails were hanging out of his pants. His hair was a mess. Luckily my shirt was always un-tucked and my hair was always a mess.

"I'll talk to her . . . " I said after a moment, taking the cane from him, our hands brushing against each other, "You . . . better get back to work,"

We parted, again, and I was left the awful task first of finding her then talking to her. I went to the lab. She would have gone back to work, trying to regain a sense of normalcy in her panic.

She saw me coming. Benefit of glass walls. When she saw me her eyes went quickly back to the microscope. I opened the door and walked in. More or less. My leg had started hurting again. A lot.

She didn't turn around.

"You can't tell Cuddy," I said to her. It was the first thing to come to my mind, the most important thing for now.

"Why would I tell Cuddy?" she asked, leaning back from the microscope and taking up a pen to scrawl a line of numbers across the file page.

"Sounds like something you'd do," I answered.

She spun around in her chair, "Something I would do?! What about you? What the hell was that?!" She was near tears.

"It's nothing,"

"The hell it is," she slammed the file closed, not looking at me, "I feel like I'm going to be sick,"

"You might want to step out of the lab,"

"How can you be so calm?!"

"I'm not!" I yelled suddenly, regretting it as soon as the words left my mouth.

Her face hardened, she set her tear filled eyes and took a moment before saying, "So this is the big secret?"

"What?"

"That you're," she lowered her voice, passing a hand over her nose, voice a mixture of shock and pain, "That you're  _ gay _ ? That's it? That's what you've been hiding?"

Luckily I hadn't counted on her not getting emotional. The torch she may or may not have held for me had been dramatically dashed very suddenly in one stupid moment. Maybe she thought we still had a chance. Wilson was wrong. We were being stupid. I didn't want her to have to find out that way. Not good for her. Not good for me. Humiliating for me. Because it was Wilson. Because it was a guy. Because I'm not supposed to do things like that.

"I'm not gay," I said darkly.

"There must be some other explanation then," she said sarcastically. I couldn't say anything. She wanted me to say it? I couldn't even think it. Saying things aloud made them true. I'm not falling into  _ that _ trap. She shook her head, "Wow, you really are pathetic. You show no love, for anything or anyone, and you finally have it, with someone that really cares about you, and you're too much of a coward to admit it,"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement and my eyes dropped to the polished floor as Chase pushed through the door. Cornered.

"Admit what?" he asked curiously. I underestimated his hearing apparently. I bit my lip and locked my eyes with Cameron.  _ Don't _ , I thought.

Her gaze never faltered, "He's seeing someone,"

Chase's eyebrows rose, "Seeing someone?" he repeated, looking from Cameron to me with a smile tumbling across his lips, "Someone only  _ he _ can see . . ."

" _ Dating someone, _ seeing someone."

"You're joking," he laughed. I rolled my eyes, gritting my teeth. I wanted to defend myself but it'd only be incriminating. When Cameron said nothing to deny it he scoffed, "You're not joking. . . well, alright . . . congratulations, I guess,"

Cameron leaned one hand on the tabletop, assuming a casual pose despite the tears she had been close to crying less than a minute ago. She even smiled. Not at me. At Chase. "What are you doing Friday night?"

"Friday?" he squeaked, "Uh, nothing, why?"

"Dr. House invited us on a double date,"

"You and I . . ." Chase said slowly, holding a hand to his chest in affirmation, "And House and . . ."

"His date,"

I knew Chase was an idiot but apparently idiot is the predecessor to imbecile. How could he fall for this?

"Well, I . . .alright," his eye lit up, a piece of blonde hair falling across his brow as he smiled at Cameron, "I'd love to,"

"Great," Cameron said.

"Oh, and uh, you should know that the patient blood gas levels are almost back to normal,"

Chase left, busy apparently. Cameron got up off her stool, leaving too. I caught her arm as she passed,

"I'm not going on this date,"

"Actually you are,"

"No, I'm not,"

"If you don't go," she jerked her arm loose from mine, fixing me with her wide, long-lashed eyes, "I'll tell Cuddy what I saw,"

"This is a childish game," I told her, "If you're doing this just to torture me you're doing it for the wrong reason—it's that or blind, unreasoning jealousy. Equally wrong of course would be trying to help a lost cause but resentment is so much stronger than compassion isn't it?"

"If you do this that's it, it's over, I'll leave you and him alone,"

"But your date? Somehow I don't picture golden-boy keeping his mouth shut,"

"He won't tell,"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I don't think you're a lost cause,"

"You have yourself convinced—"

"And Wilson doesn't either,"

She had struck a cord. A cord she knew now to be there. I'd had enough. I'd talked to her. I turned and started to limp out of the lab.

"Seven on Friday!" Cameron called behind me.

"I'm not showing!" I shouted over my shoulder.

"Yes you are!"

How would I tell Wilson?


	3. Mistakes Made

Pager. When all else that you're not willing to try fails it's the best and only option to getting in touch with someone.

Now my leg is in excruciating pain. The pain charts doctors sometimes use, the visual version of "on a scale of 1-10", with little smiley faces in various degrees of agony couldn't even come close. Cameron could have kicked me square in the leg and saved time. Of course any amount of pain would seem unbearable in comparison to the total lack of pain I'd been in less than ten minutes ago. It was amazing how easy it'd been to forget the pain in my leg while Wilson was giving me a blowjob.

I went back to my office, ignoring the overwhelming urge to hide away, nonetheless finding the closed, darkened room comforting. Crawling back to where it was safe wasn't going to help me now besides it being cowardly. I preferred pathetic; cowardly implied weakness.

I unclipped my pager as I sat down, grimacing as I straightened my right leg under my desk, one hand clenching my thigh. I sent Wilson a message he wasn't likely to ignore. Pushed send. Threw the pager on my desk with a clatter. Fell back in my seat, eyes squeezed shut in pain. But it was quiet and dark behind my eyelids. I kept them closed, taking several shuddering breaths. A minute passed. He'll be here soon.

Cameron was probably—no, definitely doing this, setting up this date, to "help me" in some weird twisted way. Normal, social people go on dates. She has an overly simple mind with happy little gears and hopeful little pulleys that tick away but have very little output. Makes this easy, simple, for her. If it was any clearer than it was before it's obvious she must not live in the same world I do. My gears are all broken.

The door burst open, my eyes opened, and Wilson's face went from an expression of extreme relief to intense anger in the time it took me to focus my eyes.

"This was funny," he said, pager held up at eye level, knuckles white.

I pressed my lips together in a thoughtful expression, "Someone once told me I have a dark sense of humour," I said in a casual way, sitting up.

"Emergency," Wilson read from the pager, making my eyes roll impatiently to the ceiling, "Dr. House is in critical condition," the pager fell to his side, eyes boring into me, he'd only read part of it, "I was upstairs, I came running down here only to find Brenda at the desk filing her nails."

I bit my lip, my thoughts darkening, "This  _ is _ an emergency."

"What is it?" Wilson asked, calming himself by running a hand through his hair, voice lower, "Something Cameron said?"

"It's so hard to pick just one thing."

"If you  _ had _ to."

I had trouble meeting his eyes. I wanted to. But couldn't. My eyes were somewhere to the side of my desk as I tried to take a few deep breaths, Wilson's tension almost tactical, "She . . . said she wouldn't tell Cuddy if I, if we went on a date with her and Chase," I looked up at him.

His mouth dropped open; he almost fell back a step like someone had pushed him, then shook his head, eyes closed, "A date?"

"Yeah."

"A double date?"

"Yeah."

"With her and Chase?"

"Let's try repeating it again, maybe this time it won't be true."

Wilson exhaled, looking like he needed to sit down, hair sticking up in an odd way from his hand running through it, "She can't do this," he said in a quiet, angry voice.

"I can't think of any way out of it," I said quietly, "We don't have a choice," my hand was back on my thigh, which was throbbing about as much as my head was at the moment, "She'll tell Cuddy otherwise . . . and  _ that _ she can do," my fingers curled into the folds of my jeans and I forced away the screaming in my head to take pills. It's getting worse. Can't ignore it anymore. I looked up at him, "Sit down, you look like you're going to pass out."

His eyes flickered to mine and he moved to sit down. He clasped in the chair, arms falling limp in his lap, "When?"

"Friday."

"Would this . . ." he set his mouth, eyes wandering sideways, " . . . be a pretend date for us or a real date?"

"I'm just doing it to save my ass," I looked from my desk, frowned, not sure why he looked troubled. I shrugged, biting the inside of my cheek, "Our asses."

"Right," he agreed, clearing his throat, "In the end . . . bargaining with Cameron would be easier than bargaining with Cuddy."

"Yeah," I nodded, lacing my fingers together in front of me, "So . . . I'll find out more about it and let you know. We've got forty-eight hours, that should be enough time to come up with some kind of game plan."

When I looked at him again his eyes were lowered, an elbow propped up on the arm of the chair, knuckles covering his mouth. He sniffed, turning his brown eyes upward like he hadn't meant to waste the last few seconds, “Ok," he got up and started out the door.

"Wilson," I called. As if I would actually know what to say. As if I could acknowledge what had happened not fifteen minutes ago, that it had felt incredible and unexpected and I had no idea what it meant beyond we'd crossed a very significant line, very quickly.

"Yeah?" he turned, hands sliding into his pockets.

Two or three people passed by in the hall, walking in the sure confident way that hospital employees seem to always have even when they can't see past whatever file they have their nose buried in, their shadows passing briefly through the blinds. I'd have to open the blinds before the kids came back to tell me the case was solved, patient whoever's been discharged.

"Nothing," I said finally, roughly.

He left, door closing quietly behind him.

I went back to clinic duty for the rest of the afternoon. It all seemed fine. There was no evidence, no sign, no indication that anything other than the usual painfully stupid patients and their usual disturbingly not-awful problems had ever been going on.

Except for the fact that every chart I signed had the date appropriately and accurately marked on top, Wednesday the twelve, and every time I saw it was a reminder that not only was today Wednesday but tomorrow was Thursday and the tomorrow after it would be Friday no matter what I did. It was a ticking clock and the second hands were files. It was driving me crazy. And going back into the exam room where Wilson and I had been was a particular treat.

So I had to take pills. One was fine. Two just happened. I took four and they hit my stomach like lead. Waited a minute. Closed my eyes. No different. No different than all the other times. Except now it was more at once than the same over an extended period of time. Virtually the same thing. I can handle it. And lucky for me, the doubts always evaporate after the Vicodin starts to take effect.

I know my heart rate is high, I can feel it. I think maybe it's fear. Maybe physical strain. Maybe all the drug abuse. If it's fear then I'll calm down when the pills calm me down. And if it's anything else I'll stop feeling it then too. I'm comfortable shrugging off a rapidly emptying pill bottle when serious issues and subsequent serious pain is involved. Like now. It's not the problem. The date's the problem.

It's a problem because it, whatever the hell it is, makes the whole denial thing difficult, that and by a widely accepted rule when you go on a date with someone it means you're romantically involved. So that would mean I like Wilson. And that would mean, by definition, that I'm not straight. All those late night lying awake, too tense to sleep, just staring miserably at my ceiling until I can't take it anymore and finally jerk off, they're not so much a mystery anymore. Not when the images going through my head, ones I choose to forget immediately afterwards, are of my best friend. What I feel for him is real, god, what if it's more than that, what if it's . . .

"And then it started to look green."

Suddenly I realized someone was talking to me.

I was in the clinic. Am in the clinic.

The words I'd just heard un-jumbled themselves in my mind, falling together in a wobbly, haphazard line that was more or less comprehensible to me as long as I didn't have to know what they meant.

Green then and it started look to.

No, that's not right. My eyes focused on the large immobile object in front of me. I assumed it was the patient but it was too soon to tell.

"Are you listening to me?" the object's voice echoed distantly off the walls of my mind.

"No, not really," I answered, idly wondering where green fit into all this.

Blinked my eyes, really trying to pay attention. Large rimmed glasses. Suspenders. Maybe tweed, not sure. He had no pants on. Struck me as odd that he'd be wearing tweed with no pants.

"Is this what they pay doctors for now?" he insisted, the buckles on his suspenders were clinking, making noise, he was pulling his pants up. I felt something like gratitude. "To sit around with your degrees and stethoscopes, not listening to people?"

Wow. He seemed like an asshole.

I realized too late I'd said that last part, the asshole part at least, out loud. Then I laughed. Didn't know if I was saying things or thinking them.

"Excuse me?" he retorted.

"You think this is bad," I heard myself say, "You should have seen what I was doing in here this morning,"

"Verbally assaulting a patient?"

"Think lower, less verbal, and consensual," my eyes wandered to the ceiling, "Who thought sex in an exam room could be so hot?" Speechlessness. There's a reaction I hadn't thought of, "Well," I sighed, "Better get on with this,"

"No! I'll go to another clinic," the man said, yelled maybe, snapping his suspenders back over his shoulders. Heavy steps toward the door. "I don't care if I'll have to pay, as least I'll get a real doctor," he was wheezing. Typically not a good sound. Especially when you're so large you can barely fit through the door and something somewhere is turning green. Should I stop him? Do I really enjoy his company that much? Should I suggest he sit back down, relax, been a long day? All those seemed more and more unlikely as he continued talking, "You look like you're insane. Or on drugs." He might have been yelling that too, "I'm talking to the administrator, I'm talking to whoever's criminal enough to sign your paychecks, you should be fired, or worse," He slammed the door on the way out.

Lucky number five. Fifth patient. I'm done. I went to the front desk. Threw the file on the nurses' desk, and that's when I saw Cuddy and Cameron together. Cuddy had her arms crossed. Cameron was speaking to her. Telling her something? I pushed myself from the desk. We had made a deal. I limped as fast I could to get to them. Not freaking out. I'm not freaking out. I don't freak out.

" . . . barely had time to—" Cameron stopped mid-sentence as I approached.

I took advantage of her silence, " . . . and then I found out how much it would cost and I had to tell her I just couldn't afford it—turns out hookers don't barter," I stopped, mirroring their shocked expressions with my own convincing surprised expression, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought this was sharing time—you go ahead Cameron."

"The conversation was between us, House," Cuddy explained slowly, like I needed it, "Us. Just the two of us," she pointed genially to herself then Cameron, "If you ever feel the need to interrupt on any of mine or Dr. Cameron's conversations in the future try and restrain yourself, count to ten, whatever," she turned back to Cameron, then half turned on a heel, tilting her head down the hall, "Was that a patient?"

"Patient?" feigned panic, "Where?!"

'That just came storming out of exam two . . . who's heading to my office," her eyes squinted.

I was trying to interpret the look on Cuddy's face. Serious? Angry? Besides the day old makeup that she apparently hadn't had the chance to touch up, exposing dark circles under her eyes and a less vibrant shade of cerulean blue eye-shadow, as well as several loose strands of hair she brushed distractingly out of the way every now and then, she didn't seem mad or sad or glad or any other rhyme. So I'd just thrown myself in the conversation for nothing.

"Is your conversation hospital related?" I pushed, "Personal? Should we start passing notes? The walls have ears you know," I shifted my eyes from side to side.

Cuddy sighed heavily, "Why do you do this? Are you incapable of leaving people,  _ me _ , alone?!"

"Short fuse," I winced, looking at Cameron, "Maybe I shouldn't have joined in,"

Cameron wasn't laughing. On closer inspection she wasn't smiling either. In fact when looking even closer she was frowning, glaring, at me. And what had I done?

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked. This made Cuddy even more angry. Cameron was supposed to be on her side. They were having t-shirts made. And bumper stickers. Team Anti-House 4 Ever.

"Of course he's alright, why wouldn't he be?" Cuddy retorted, rolling her eyes before fixing me with an almost crippling gaze. Crippling gaze . . . that's funny. Hurting hurt people is so mean.

"Yeah," I agreed with Cuddy, "Why wouldn't I be? I spent the whole day in the clinic."

"Part of your job."

"You should have heard the end of my story though."

"No thanks," she turned and I might have heard some kind of knocking in the background, and felt myself smile idiotically, "Okay, I think I have to go deal with one of your disgruntled patients now. He's trying to break down my door," she headed toward the sound, calling in a raised voice, "Excuse me, sir? Can I help you?" her heels faded into the distant, echoing around me like ripples in water.

"Nice, House," Cameron said to me once Cuddy had made her appropriate huffy exit, one I'd rate as one of her best though maybe her spirit wasn't wholly in it.

"It was that or get her flowers but I'm not really romantic, and I'm cheap too,"

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Talk about hookers, about flowers and romance and—dating women, are you constantly making things up to ward off suspicion?"

"Suspicion, there's a good word," I said, "Because I saw you and Cuddy talking and I suddenly felt tense like . . . maybe you'd go back on our deal for the sake of a little girl talk, like guess what oncologists are  _ also _ really good at—"

"I'm not going to tell her!" she almost shouted, which at the moment seemed like a very loud noise coming from a very small person, but before I could ponder that further she had started talking again, forcing my attention to her, "And not to state the obvious but if you're not careful you won't have to worry about me telling at all."

"People should mind their own business."

"People talk."

"Not you, you just barge into rooms unannounced, it seems to be working out."

"What's the matter with you?" she asked through the shock/confused/appalled/angry look on her face, maybe a "concerned" if that's not too many slashes. She was eyeing me very closely. I didn't like it. Not at all. I almost felt myself start squirming. Was it a knowing gaze? Somewhere in those tragically innocent eyes could she see the truth? Was she thinking to herself how obvious it was, balanced on the brink of letting me know that she knew, like she was sorry, she knew all about the extra pills I'd taken. Eyes a little too dilated. Speech a little too erratic.

"You're acting stranger than usual," she said.

"Usual strangeness . . . that sounds contradictory."

"House . . ."

Okay, okay, maybe I'd taken too many pills. But I was too high to do anything but laugh about it. Or maybe I just didn't care. The former seemed more likely. I was usually really good at keeping my mouth shut. An expert. But at the moment I can barely control the words coming out of my mouth. I shouldn't have taken them. Regret twisted in my stomach but I was having trouble feeling that too. I numbly thought about the numbness of the morphine I'd taken, dully recalled today's dulling pills, as well as yesterday's, yesterday's yesterday, and felt them close around my throat. Somehow I still talked.

"You should know it's nothing," I said to her.

"What?"

"Wilson and me," I pressed my lips together, "I'm not in love with him," I heard myself scoff at the word, "I don't even like him, I just . . ."

"You know, House," she said in a comparatively calm voice, "From where I was standing . . . you seemed to be liking him just fine . . ."

For a moment the pained expression on my face wasn't fake. I blinked back the dizziness in my head, taking a breath, then said slowly, "Sorry it wasn't you? You're just angry because you wanted the pleasure for yourself."

"You're a bastard."

"Does that mean the date's off?"

"No," she said, I swear with relish, "And just so you know it's at an art gallery," I must have been gawking. "There's a new show, I thought we all might enjoy it."

An art gallery? I suppressed a shudder. "If it's modern art I'm shooting myself," I said.

"It's not," she said, "It's just a place to go," she seemed unwilling to explain herself more, not that I really would have cared. Art was art, I didn't necessarily need to see it in a gallery to enjoy it. She handed me a sheet of paper. Details. I took it reluctantly.

Great. There goes hoping she'd just let it go.

But at least now I could go home. No case. No more clinic duty.

As I got my things together, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of my mouth at the leg pain that was slowly coming back, I sent Wilson a message telling him where the date was as well as for him to meet me at my place an hour or so before.


	4. The Date

Am I excited? Good question. But what is excitement? Is it the nervous fluttering in your stomach? The giddiness that one hears only on the higher octaves? The secret smile that you don't even remember smiling? The thoughtful daydreaming at your desk as you nibble at the end of your pen?

Am I excited? There's a fluttering in my stomach, yes, but it would more appropriately be called nausea, which is obvious to me because I feel like puking. And if giddiness can be translated as dizzy and shaky, sure, that too. So, as a guess, just a guess, I'm really not that good at these kinds of things, I wouldn't call this excitement, not for me, more like coming down after a pretty high high in addition to a happy emotion I like to call dread. Dread's like excitement, isn't it?

You have to understand it's not the going out with Wilson part that's difficult. I've done that before, even before he'd sucked my dick. I don't care about being seen in public. I don't give a damn about the public, not even half a damn. It's being forced into it that's the problem. Freewill is very important to me, to anyone that breathes. That's why I don't like this.

I've gotten this far without having to divulge anything too personally personal—like why I haven't dated anyone in five years. Why Stacy had been a perfect choice, she'd been a lawyer, successful, not around much, a woman. Why my father and I never got along like normal fathers and sons do, or maybe why he hated me for all these years. Why his infrequent visits start out with snide inquiries about who I’m seeing, who I’m dating, who could possibly have ovaries and give them grandchildren because they're not getting any younger.

I was trying to get ready. I'd taken a shower. I'd limped around a little afterward, dripping wet, considering it air drying, then clasped on the couch, dressed in what seemed like appropriate clothes for the evening.

Waiting for Wilson. Having him here was better than being alone. At least to just escape boredom. That or the way the ceiling seemed a little too high. The sounds seemed to echo a bit more. And he'd always been cooking something. For a while I'd watched a can of half-eaten soup sit in the sink, like it might just disappear, the way dishes did when he was around, but instead all I got was mold. Which was gross. But oddly enough not bad company.

When Wilson finally got here he started getting ready himself. It was more like half an hour till the date than an hour.

"She must be insane," Wilson said, slinging his tie around his neck, collar up around his ears as he edged to the side to see around my shoulder in the mirror, "Did you tell her she was insane? That or—"

"Why are you wearing a tie?" I asked him, anger sharpening my words. I jerked the faucet off, grabbing a towel slung over the side of the sink and dragged it down my face.

Wilson's hands stopped moving for a moment, then started again, his reflection meeting mine in the mirror, "This is a date, you wear ties on dates," he said matter-of-factly. I threw the towel aside, my blue eyes flickering to the mirror, not wanting to look at myself.

'This isn't a date," I said, yanking the tie from his neck, cane-less, limping out of the bathroom, "It's blackmail."

"Well that sets such a lovely tone to the whole evening," he said from behind me.

I dropped the tie on the couch.

Wilson came and retrieved the tie, "It won't be that bad. It's an art gallery. We'll walk around a little bit, look at a few paintings, then go," the tie looped around his neck again, the memorized, routine movements of his hands hardly needing his eye's attention, "Anyway, this is about you and Cameron. Chase and I are just innocent bystanders."

"Maybe you and Chase could get together," I suggested grimly, limping around the couch to look for my other shoe but not seeing it.

"He's not my type," Wilson said amiably, folding his collar down.

Sounded strange to hear him say that. He had a type? Strange enough to make me hesitate, then ask, "I'm your type?"'

"Yeah," he said simply, frowned like it was surprising even to him, "It's . . . hard to explain," he tucked a bit of his shirt in again, "Maybe you were right, maybe it has something to do with needing to be needed. And I'm, well, a little less than all the way, well," he fiddled with his collar more, "Straight. I mean, you have no idea how . . . actually attractive you are . . . for some reason," he fooled around with his tie more, distracted, "Anyway," he stood up a little straighter, asking with a sigh, "How do I look?"

I stopped trying to decipher what he'd said and focused on how he looked. Jacket. Tie. Clean. Somehow "you look clean" didn't sound like a compliment in my head. Language is tricky though. Verbalizing praise isn't exactly one of my strong suits, I doubt he was expecting anything. No matter how good or bad I thought he looked. In this case good. Better than me anyway.

This being said, or rather not said, but thought, intensely, I knew it probably wasn't the best time to ask what I was about to ask. If he said no it would ruin my night. But if he said yes . . .

I limped toward him a few steps, still no cane, stopping a few steps in front of him, "Move back in with me."

His mouth dropped open a little, a smile spreading across his lips which he tried to hide by looking down at his feet, then back up at me, eyes unparalleled in how vulnerable they could make me feel while seeming totally unaware that he was doing it, "Are you sure?"

I nodded.

It was still unfamiliar. Still entirely thrilling and wonderful to take his hand and pull him to me. I leaned into him, inhaling his scent deeply, remembering the feel of his body and the sound of his moans as I kissed him.

"Let's get back home as soon as we can," I growled into his ear, rubbing my rough cheek against his, and biting at his ear lobe, reveling at the word. Home.

"No interruptions this time," he said, one hand sliding around to grab my ass with one more lingering kiss.

Time is cruel. But this was a whole new kind of teasing Wilson I could see myself enjoying.

In the car outside the gallery. People were filing in.

"We don't have to do this, you know," Wilson said, "We don't have to do anything. If Cameron tells Cuddy I can say it was a . . . misunderstanding."

"Yeah, but it wasn't. I didn't misunderstand my penis into your mouth."

"What else do we do?" he signed, "I know you crave self-punishment, House, when the world doesn't do it for you, you find a way to do it to yourself but, you, we can't just, just—."

"Be happy?" I supplied.

"I'm trying," he responded, hands covering his face for a moment, "I'm trying not to dash my hopes against a wall here but I also have no idea how to do this, I'm mean, suddenly we're dating  _ dating _ and this is not my idea of what I our first date would be."

I looked out the side window dejectedly, "You let your hopes get up to easily."

"I'm sorry, I'll have to try and control that."

"It is possible, you know," I looked back to him, the headlights of another car passing through the front windshield.

"Ok," he took a deep breath, hands lifting off the steering wheel, "We're dating."

"After a few kisses and a messy interrupted blow job?"

"Well I would have finished."

"I would have too—in about 8 more seconds."

"You're almost welcome."

"Most people assumed we were already sleeping together."

"That's helpful."

"I think the nurses had a pool. Somebody, somewhere has a crisp twenty dollar bill to spend on cheap wine and Oreos."

He looked sideways at me, "What are we doing, House?"

"Sitting in a car,"

"That explains the existential crisis."

"There's nothing existential about it. We are two humans that are compatible for partnership. My genitals respond to your genitals. End of story."

"How romantic."

I considered that, "Works for me."

He looked at me and smiled, "That's what you want?"

I paused, felt something twist inside me, a sharp automatic thought of, it doesn't matter what I want, that rose to the foreground and I fought it back, looking at Wilson, "I just want you. That's enough for me. Fuck the hospital."

"So if Cuddy . . ."

"Forget about Cuddy for now, we have more important things to worry about."

"Such as?"

"The date," 

"How freaked out do you think Cameron and Chase will be?"

"Depends," I said, tapping my cane on my shoulder, "Wanna find out?" I turned to meet his eyes, pausing as his met mine. After a moment his eyes flickered away briefly as he bit slightly at his lower lip, and I saw them focus on my lips, then back up to my eyes. Another car's headlights shined briefly before shutting off, the refracted light pale over Wilson's face.

He wanted to kiss me. It seemed obvious, wonderfully obvious, like he'd just found out subtly was no longer required, allowing the slight pout of his lower lip, the darkened, sexy look in his eyes.

I found myself moving closer, he met me halfway, in an almost slow, ambling way, like he planned, if there was a plan, to just fall into me. When I tilted my head right he'd already gone left and his lips melted into mine, perfectly. They parted mine, and all at once there were only the slow, caressing movements of Wilson's tongue making the whole world fall away with me along with it. I almost felt stupid just sitting there, too shocked to do anything but let him kiss me. We were in the car though. In the car outside the gallery. This couldn't go anywhere. I opened my mouth further, hearing him gasp into my mouth as I decided to at least gain some ground by putting my hand on his thigh.

Had to get out of the car. Date. We were on a date.

We broke apart, my lips wet with his saliva, eyes closed briefly as I caught several breaths, my other hand on the back of his neck, soft hair in my fingers.

"That stops tonight," I said in a slightly hoarse voice, "We have to finish what we start, for once."

His eyes rolled shut, "This might be a longer night than I thought."

We got out of the car. Started toward the gallery. We saw them at the door and approached as fast as we, more like I, could, and it wasn't so much like walking into a trap, more like closing the distance on a battlefield.

Cameron looked great. In the way that only self-conscious pretty people can look good. Time intensive yet seemingly effortless beauty. Chase was also busy looking as casually beautiful as possible. Like it wasn't really an effort when it took hours to get your hair just perfect. He looked a little uncomfortable, granted, but he otherwise seemed content at just being there for show if nothing else. I assumed Cameron told him who my date was beforehand. But then I also assumed Chase would smile politely and follow Cameron's lead before expressing his own opinion.

"House," Cameron said as we approached, turning ninety degrees to face us. Chase's hands fell from his pockets. "Glad you could make it," she said brightly.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I said, lowering my hand from where it had been on Wilson's lower back.

"Wilson," she greeted. I became aware of music steaming from the open doors. Glancing inside I saw what definitely constituted a crowd, bouncing and bumping into each other like red blood cells, but instead of providing oxygen they were taking it.

He smiled, "Cameron," damn him for looking more at ease than I was, "I love your dress."

"Thank you," she answered, long lashes batting humbly, "Nice tie."

"Traffic?" he offered.

"No. You?"

"Nope."

He nodded. I nodded. We all nodded. I was glad it wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be.

"Green shoes," I said, somewhat out of the blue, looking at Cameron's feet.

"Huh?" her eyes fell to the ground.

"The human eye can see more colours of green than any colour," I said to Wilson.

"Really?" he nodded, "Prada?"

"Prada?" she asked.

"I'm betting BCBG," I commented.

"Throwing your money away."

"Yeah right."

"They're not BCBG," she interjected. We both shut our mouths, dramatically looking at her, "Or Prada. They're Chinese Laundry . . . I think."

"I was going to say that next," I said.

Silence. She was too much fun to mess with.

"Shall we?" I offered, slipping my hand into Wilson's.

"There are drinks and food inside," Cameron said, eyes lingering only a second on our hands.

"I read about this artist," Chase contributed, speaking up like he'd had to resist raising his hand to speak, "Not a lot. But apparently he's branching out from New York."

"I heard that," Wilson said, starting to walk, "He's being called the Last Impressionist or something."

"Are you into art?" Chase asked him.

"Sort of," Wilson answered, "But I'm by no means an expert."

"Neither am I," Chase said agreeably, turning every now and then to glance at Wilson as he walked.

We entered the gallery. Stood in front of the first painting. It was a mass of colours, mostly muted greens and browns. If I squinted I could almost make out an image. Chase went and got us plastic cups of wine. Most people were just standing around in groups talking. Being social. Being normal and human. All things that didn't come that easily to me. But then Wilson was with me. And he was still holding my hand. And it felt good.

"Actually," Cameron said, turning on a heel to face Wilson, "There's more on the second floor, care to join me?"

"Sure," he said, as I did my best to ignore the walls closing in on me, hoping I'd suffocate before I got crushed. His eyes lingered over mine for a moment.

"You don't mind?" Cameron asked me a little too sweetly.

"Not at all."

"We'll be back soon then," she said, and turned. Wilson let go of my hand and followed.

I resisted the urge to trip one or more shuffling people with my cane. No one rushes around in an art gallery. But when you're standing still with a gimp leg it can seem that way. I decided I hated it here but didn't find any comfort in making up my mind. The sound was deafening, shuffling feet, the constant rambling of insightful critiques from everyone and anyone that had taken a high school art history class and considered themselves enlightened in the fact that they knew what blue means.

Chase had his hands in his pockets again, staring at the painting in front of us.

"Now that Cameron's absconded with my date," I grumbled as we shuffled to the next painting, "Don't you want to ask me a load of annoying questions?"

"No, not particularly," he answered with a shrug, "I figure it's personal."

"Whoa," I scoffed, "That's interesting. Zen of you not to have the lust for the latest gossip like everyone else,"

"I wouldn't want people gossiping about me," he added, the cup of wine level at his chest as his eyes were level with mine, "Unless you want me to harass you, which I'm guessing you don't,  _ and _ you're still my boss. Who you date has nothing to do with work."

"If only your girlfriend felt the same way," I growled, "She's conniving."

"Wonder where she learned that from."

"What's  _ that _ supposed to mean?" I asked, popping a pill in my mouth with another gulp of wine.

He looked frustrated, "It means we're not at work and we're trying to have a good time, alright?" he sighed, "I don't want to fight you."

I considered the idea of being less suspicious of him, the thick taste of cheap wine coating my tongue like jelly, but struggled to trust his intentions while glancing up to the open second floor, looking for Wilson.

"I thought this was a double date," I said more to myself, "Where did she take him?"

I downed the rest of the wine, hoping it would speed up the Vicodin. We moved to another painting that looked more like a perforated bowel rather than art.

Chase glanced over at me, "And really, I'm honestly not surprised," he took a drink, turning his eyes again to the painting like there'd be some new found reason to the random swirls of colour than there was a minute ago.

"Frankly neither am I," I said, "Definitely worth twelve hundred dollars."

Interestingly, he wasn't fooled.

"It wasn't anything you did or anything . . . or didn't do, it was just . . . a feeling."

I rolled my eyes, "You had a feeling?"

"Well, not that  _ exact _ feeling," he said quickly, the rim of his cup contorting under his grip, "You two just acted really . . . close, is all," another drink.

God this is humiliating. He made it sound obvious. How could it be obvious to him?

"That's impossible," I stated, leaning more on my cane, eyes scanning the crowd, wanting more wine, scanning the room for more.

"Is it?" Chase asked.

"Yeah," I answered, glaring at him, " Wilson and I are none of the hospital's business."

He paused, running his thumb along the rim of his cup, then said, "I agree,"

"Right," I thudded my cane against the ground, "Now that my questionable sexuality is out of the way; you seem awfully cheerful for a guy being used just to make an even four."

"Right," he nodded, "Divert this back to me," he sighed edgily, "I'm not the one that got caught, if you're too proud to realize," he met my eyes, "You're angry because I figured something out this time. We're not supposed to know about you? Dr. House, so mysterious," he laughed, "Say whatever you want, I know the truth," another drink, "It's kind of cute actually."

"God, tell me you didn't just use the word cute."

"You're damaged," he affirmed, "So is he."

"Not only that, he's great in bed."

"I wouldn't doubt it."

"Excuse me? That's my boyfriend you're talking about."

"It's a compliment."

"Yeah but how would you know?"

"It's easy, you've just got to watch him," I must have looked unconvinced because he slid an artful smile over his lips and continued with a half-shrug, "Anybody who's that controlled has loads of energy to keep a hold of, too much even. And on top of that he's the nicest guy you'll ever meet, which means he'll make it all about you before about himself."

I paused, "And he cooks too."

"Quite the deal."

I paused for a beat, "Cameron and you . . ."

“It's . . . complicated."

"I'm pretty sure she doesn't hate you, if that's comforting."

"It's not, but thanks."

"No problem."

"Maybe she'll finally get over you now; unless you sleeping with Wilson is too subtle for her."

I grabbed at a glass of wine coming by me on a tray, "Something tells me she hasn't dropped this bone yet,"

"You're saying she's got some ulterior motive for all this?"

"Was that me? No, that was you,"

"You're wrong. What could she possibly have to gain from all this?"

"Hum . . . if only there was a way to find out . . ."

"Like?"

"Wow, is it cold in here?" I said suddenly with a shiver, "Gotta warm up, thank god Wilson's here,"

Wilson and Cameron were just coming through the crowd. He saw me but kept talking to Cameron.

"—not only that there's no real shampoo, I hadn't had a chance to really take a shower until—" he stopped talking to Cameron, looking me in the eye amiably, "Problem, House?"

"Not at all, Jimmy," I answered, eyes shifting for a moment to Cameron, glaring but relieved Wilson was back. He had found a plate of cheese and crackers. When he came to stand next to me I threw a cheese slice in my mouth with relish.

Cameron tossed some of her curled hair over a bare shoulder in an almost obvious satisfied way that made me inch closer to Wilson, as she did the same with Chase in an odd symmetry, "These are beautiful paintings," she said, then laughed, "If I had a couple thousand dollars to shell out to buy one I'd put it in my living room."

I thought of something brilliant to say but stopped when I felt Wilson hand on my back. He shook his head at me. The hand dropped away and he smiled at Cameron, then looked back to me, "Could I talk to you for a sec?"

"Sure," I said jovially, then looked at Cameron with a wink, "We'll be in the bathroom."

Once we were away from them, in front of another painting, I stopped next to him, "Yeah?"

"You were fighting with him?"

"No," I shook my head, "Just talking—he was going to major in art history but found the curriculum too challenging."

He waved his hand to stop me, eyes glancing over my shoulder, "She's plotting against us," he sounded extremely paranoid.

"What was your first clue?" I asked, "Obviously machination is wasted on you," I said, glancing over at Cameron and Chase nervously.

"House, I mean she tried to bate me," he shifted his eyes sideways to me, breathless, anxious, "She was asking things."

"Like questions?"

"Like if—" he sighed, "Like if I'd ever been with another man before—in a relationship."

"And?"

"And nothing! It's none of her business! Why would she do that?"

"Have you?"

"What?"

"She seemed to think it was important, I can't help but be curious."

He hesitated, biting at his lower lip. He rocked back on his heels, hands sliding into his pockets, "I have . . . during my first marriage," he wasn't looking at me.

"Your wife never found out?"

"No she did, I told her, just not that it was a guy," he was speaking in a hushed voice.

"Did you tell Cameron?" I wondered.

"I told her I had, she already knew about the during marriage part, just not the other part which is a bigger deal if you ask me," he still wasn't looking at me, shaking his head.

"You told her."

"Yeah, well, she asked, I was trying to be cooperative," a hand went to his mouth, voice shook, "God, what was I thinking?" exhaled sharply, "I can't believe I just told her that."

I cursed under my breath, looking across the room to see a laughing Cameron, hanging on Chase's arm who definitely didn't look unpleased.

Wilson looked up, eyes to the ceiling, "And I thought I was ready for this? I feel like the whole room is staring at me," the whisper had started to sound more like a yell even though I could barely hear it.

"They're not," I told him, looking side to side.

"You could kiss me right here," he exclaimed, "At least then I'd know for sure," continuing not to look at me. 

"People are looking at the paintings."

"Cameron," he said, "Is she looking at us?"

I looked. She wasn't. I shook my head, "No,"

One of his hands tugged at his collar, straightening it though it wasn't screwed up, "I . . . really do have to go to the bathroom," he said, pale, biting the hell out of his lower lip, "I think I'm going to be sick or something," he closed his eyes with a sigh.

I didn't know what to do for him. "We can go when you come back," I said instead, speaking softly.

He nodded, "Alright,"

Watching a few seconds as he retreated disheartened into the bathroom I returned to Cameron and Chase.

"Where's Wilson?" Cameron asked me.

"Bathroom. What the hell did you say to him?"

"Nothing."

"We're getting out of here. You have the high ground. Fine. Enjoy it."

"Right, okay," Cameron said angrily, "Fine. Do whatever you want,"

I turned to go, planning on meeting Wilson by the bathroom as well as leave before Cameron went off on me for ditching out early on her date. To hell with this.

"Just answer me this," I heard behind me, making me stop, "What about Stacy?"

"I'm sorry, you've reached your quota of inappropriate personal questions," I said, standing half on my right leg to face her again.

"I just want to know."

"You want to know what?"

"Five years together is a long time."

"It is? I guess I was too busy being secretly gay to notice time passing."

"Did you love her?"

Cameron had no idea what she was talking about. She didn't even have the right to have no idea. I felt my cane waver slightly under my hand I knew the ground wasn't shaking, it was just as stable as it was a minute ago. I'm not going to tell her anything but in a night of few choices I found myself on the receiving end of two huge green eyes, not knowing if they had a motive, or if for some reason she really cared. I tended to believe the former. She wanted dirt. Fine she can have some.

"I loved her," I said angrily, "You can't  _ trivialize _ a relationship you know basically nothing about. Just because I'm with Wilson now doesn't make what Stacy and I had was a lie," I glared, thinking about how she had upset Wilson, how she was wrong to do this to us and how she suddenly made the most important relationships in my life something to put in a jar and study, "You're way more naive than I thought."

"I'm sorry," she said, "I just wanted—"

"You were wrong."

"I just didn't want you to make this another game, it's not."

"Are you here to remind me that Wilson's a human being?" I asked her, pausing to watch her eyes grow larger, "Maybe you should have thought of that before blackmailing us!"

"I didn't—"

Wilson came walking up, moving slowly through the crowd. I looked at Cameron who'd dropped her eyes to the floor. This is what she wanted? To protect Wilson? To be the proverbial raven signalling the inevitable demise of our relationship? When did that become her responsibility? When did she become my keeper?

"You alright?" Chase asked Wilson.

"Yeah, fine, thanks," he was still a little pale, "The wine . . ." he explained, eyes pleading at me to leave.

"We didn't have dinner before we left either," Chase said, trying to lighten the mood, without success.

Wilson came up beside me, standing so our elbows were touching.

"Well this was awful, we have to go, thanks for the cat and mouse game," I said to them, turning to Wilson. And I just kissed him. I did it for several reasons. One of them at least being that Cameron was standing right there and the other being we were in a crowded place and I really didn't want to care, I wanted him to know that I didn't, that I'm not ashamed. I kissed him briefly enough that it wasn't obscene but long enough to make it look good, the wet sound of our lips coming apart loud and satisfying as I pulled back, shifting my weight back on my cane.

Cameron was working hard not to react. Chase's mouth was wide open.

"And that's that then," I said. "Thanks for the super evening,"

"You're welcome," Cameron said on impulse. Chase was either incapable of speech or he was choking on something.

"Night," Wilson said, waving.

The car ride was brief, Wilson drove, somewhat erratically. At one point, windows down to let in the cool evening air, I looked over to see a hand over his mouth and thought he was crying.

"You ok?" I asked.

He lowered his hand and was instead smiling, almost laughing, "I'm never going to an art show ever again," he exhaled, hands back on the wheel, "Wow."

"Poorly executed on her part, I agree."

"Maybe I should be freaking out right now," he said, "I don't know, maybe she'll tell Cuddy, and if she does, I don't know what will happen, maybe all she wanted to do was torture us, but right now I just—" he shrugged, "You . . . you kissed me in front of Chase and Cameron."

"I did."

"Did you see their faces?"

"Uh-huh."

"You kissed me."

"Yep," I considered, "Not bad for our first public outing. Thoughts?"

"House," he smiled, "Maybe we were always going to end up here, who knows. I've never been good at relationships, despite how many I've had. I never really thought what I wanted really mattered," he paused, "But maybe for both of us, maybe this is a chance to actually . . . be happy. No matter what happens . . . we'll deal with it."

We drove in silence for a moment. Seems like a lot of maybes. But he seemed happy. Balanced between panic and optimism. Great place to be. To his point, we could have danced around our actual feelings for each other for another couple of years. But time has a way of degrading everything as it passes. Usually not for the better. I massaged my leg and looked out the window, "Coming over tonight? I'm not all gay-ed out yet."

"I'm done with the hotel room," he announced, "So yeh, if you'll have me," his turned look at me and the breath caught in my throat.

"Drive faster," I told him.

The door closed and I turned the lock, facing the door. I could feel him standing behind me. I turned to face him. Words were no longer necessary. Standing that close, finally in a private place, no distractions, nothing holding us back, I could feel the arousal rolling off his body, increasing my heartrate, making me inhale deeply to gather his scent. I heard my cane drop, hit the wall.

"You said you'd done this before," I said, pulling him towards me.

He nodded as my hands trailed up to the knot in his tie. He breathed in deeply, "Swear this won't be interrupted this time."

"I swear," I told him, pulling his tie loose. Caught his eyes. Slipped his tie over his head. He pushed my jacket from my shoulders. I worked at the buttons of his shirt. I want to see him like I've never seen him before. I want to see him breathless and incoherent and exposed. I want skin on skin. I want heat and energy and the weight of him, all that he is and all that he represents in every moment, keeping me grounded, keeping me away from the edge, keeping me, always, with him.

When I heard the clink of my belt as he undid it I stopped him with a shuddering breath, his dilated eyes meeting mine in the darkness of the apartment, "I have standing problems."

He took my hands again and pulled. Without a cane he supported my weight, letting me lean on him. Went into the bedroom. The pain had returned. I desperately didn't want it to ruin this. We sat down on the bed and I couldn't get my breath to slow down, one hand on my thigh, the other on his leg. Was I really worried about him seeing it?

He turned my head to him, "House," he signed, planting small kisses over my lips, on my jaw, making me lean my head back, "It's okay," my eyes rolled shut and as he nibbled on my ear again, his breath causing a bolt of electricity through me as he slipped his hand under my pants, onto my already painful erection. He nuzzled and licked my neck until I shivered. Replace the pain with pleasure, I told my brain. I almost knocked him off the bed as I kissed him fiercely, roughly, just about the sensation, the clash of our teeth, the urge to consume. We broke apart long enough to tear at each other's shirts. Need him. Need him close. When we kiss again I let him push me backwards, further onto the bed, my leg is hurting but I don't even care, it doesn't matter, nothing matters but him right now.

The bed creaked as he leaned over me. I can barely see his eyes, wide and searching in the dim light, mouth open, brow furrowed. My nostrils flare and I smell the rich electric smell of him all around me. He is breathing heavily, shakily, as he lowered his body onto mine. I felt his erection push against mine as his weight settled down onto me. My head rolled back and I groaned, feeling his teeth meet my neck as his hips shift against mine in a shaky, almost uncertain movement. He kissed me, slid his tongue in my mouth in a rhythm set by his hips that are starting to thrust deeply into mine. My hands are running up his back, down to his ass, my cock throbbing, trying to match his pace. His mouth moves again to my neck, below my ear, as I move my hand between us, past the soft skin of his belly, to the front of his pants, stroking the intense, throbbing hardness under the straining fabric.

He stopped kissing me suddenly and for a frozen moment he is looking into my eyes. I continue to stroke him. His eyes closed as I felt his cock jump under my hand, his hips shifting into my touch. When his eyes open again they are wide, intense and the richest shade of amber. His breath came to match mine and his brow relaxed. I put my other hand to his face, my thumb smoothing the rough stubble for one quiet moment. Then his eyes rolled shut as I increased my pace on his erection, his hips moved, shook, wanting more. His hand has freed my own from my boxers and is matching my rhythm perfectly.

His moan breaks, hitches and he suddenly stops, "Wait, wait, wait," I feel his penis twitch, I can feel him close to coming already, "Not so fast,"

"Pants off. Mess." I said, letting him get up and drag his pants off awkwardly, suddenly standing naked in front of me. My eyes track over him and my lips fall apart in amazement. God, Wilson. He helps me get my pants off without getting up. Then he is laying on top of me again, our bare skin setting every nerve ending on fire between us. Kisses started at my neck. Over my chest, Wilson's tongue tracing patterns I didn't know where, making me squirm and twitch until his hair was tickling my stomach and I'd spread my legs. He took me in his mouth and I threw my head back, grabbing onto his shoulders, pulling at his hair, my back arching up until he clasped my hips to the bed and drew me deep into his mouth. The heat and warmth, the way his tongue moved, the way it felt like he was trying to consume me, his hand at the base of my erection held me roughly, pumping as his tongue moved excitedly around the head. My leg didn't hurt. Nothing hurt. He is relentless. Powerful. God, he's good. I'm helpless.

"Wilson, I'm—" I tried to say as the pressure built past the tipping point. But his movement intensified and I lost all sense of where I was as my orgasm tore through me, I shuddered, cried out and came hard into his mouth.

He crawled up to my chest and kissed at the skin between my ribs as I tried to catch my breath. He kissed me, open lips, I could taste myself on him. He smelled like me. I wanted him too. My hand found his erection that was pressing into my stomach and I grabbed him hard. He gasped, eyes wide and staring into mine.

"I almost came doing that," he said, breathless, "God, I'm close," he was so beautiful, "Make me come, House, please."

I rolled on top of him, lowering myself onto him as my hand still worked on him. He bucked and moaned and I kissed the sweaty hotness of his skin, his body which I'd never known like this, overcome by the energy between us, together, merged, one. I enjoyed the sharp whine when I kissed at his hip bones, the area ignited with sensation as he begged for me to release him. I kissed his erection, hearing myself growl slightly, letting my tongue move up it, slowly, teasing. Never done this. Not on someone else.

Everything became about him. In that moment all I wanted was him. Wanted him to feel. Wanted him to feel me, be a part of me, be lost in this together for as long as we can. In that moment, the very pulse of him inside of me I lost all thought, all pain, and when he came I came again with him, in one shuddering moment everything was beautiful and simple.

I collapsed on top of him and we shook and sweated and listened as each other's breaths slowed and his arms slowly came to curl around me. We held each other. I felt happy. I wasn't alone. Wilson pulled the blankets over us and we fell asleep.


	5. Comes in Threes

I woke up in pain. Eyes opened. Immediately closed. Too bright. Forgot to pull the blinds last night. And since when did my apartment face the east?

Right eye cracked open a bit. Seemed okay. Took a deep breath, trying to lift my left arm, it was asleep, felt all tingly, but couldn’t. I tried one more time before realizing someone else was in bed with me. More to the point, someone was lying on me. And, in the way only reserved for sleeping people, I held off all blame for the moment, not wanting to point any fingers at the quiet innocence of sleep. My pupils took an absurdly long time to shrink, the spots in front of my eyes faded, and when I could see I looked down and slightly over to see Wilson’s sleeping face. Resting in the crook of my arm, against my chest. His eyelashes were nearly touching the skin of my chest, almost tickled, just enough that I could feel them moving. He was dreaming. The place his breath hit my skin, warm and slightly wet was drawing all my focus every time he exhaled and when he inhaled goose bumps rose over my skin. Wiggling the toes on my right foot, all but two seemed in as much pain as the rest of my leg, making me bite at my lip impatiently. I took my eyes away from him, drawing shallow breaths so my ribs didn’t expand too much and wake him, not sure I was getting enough oxygen.

It’s a quiet moment. One that deserves a leisurely disregard of the time, easy sighs of contentment and a carefree wantless, apart from breakfast, mind. Not for me apparently. Though my morning or always met with pain. That part isn’t new. This feels real. More real now than when it was actually happening. I was sticky. It was gross. When I moved my leg slightly the sheet stuck against my skin. About the only thing that seemed clean was my pillow as I turned my head to look out into the hallway, my eyes following the path of sun from my window. His shirt was hanging off the end of the bed. Upon further searching I found mine strewn over my lamp. I couldn’t see my pants.

My brain, limping into full awareness, brought back flashes, images, of last night. The feel of his hands sliding down my chest, the pulse of his cock around my lips, the sounds he made, looking down to see him take me in his mouth, hips thrusting into him. I hadn’t wanted to stop. And as much as I wanted to make excuses, as I’ve always done, I can’t. It had felt incredible. Like I knew it would. And it scared me. 

The square of light cast across my bedroom floor faded, clouds moving in on what had supposed to be a sunny day. He was still asleep. I already knew he was a heavy sleeper for the most part. All those nights sleeping on the couch were evidence of that. One of my two sets of sheets clumsily made into something like a bed on my couch, the acrid taste of bad memories and missed awkward nights with a wife who had in so many unspoken words and long lunches or cheap motel rooms with another man, made a choice to leave him for good.

I didn’t want to do that to him. All I do is hurt people. And here in my bed, covered in each other’s cum and sweat, more than ever he was in the perfect position to be hurt. 

Osmosis, the process in which cells regulate themselves, adjusting to an established equilibrium with other cells is my day to day life. Cells leech or give let’s say water to other cells so they have equal amounts with the one next to them. Perfect for cells. Works great for them. They have real close, friendly relationships unless you count, “well that guy’s mitochondria is so much cooler than mine”, or “wow, you’re rough endoplasmic reticulum is really something”, but then two cells never really get ugly about such a simple thing like osmosis. That’s a given. They expect it. It’s actually a great metaphor, let me dumb it down, if I can—one cell is me, I hurt inside, someone is another cell, I make them hurt just as much. Anyone who’s stupid enough to get close to me. 

I eased my left arm from under Wilson’s head, centimeter by centimeter, figuring that was slow enough but watching his face nonetheless. By systematically shifting my hips then my shoulders to the right I was able to inch away from him. His face remained quiet and undisturbed, mouth open slightly as he breathed. As I moved to sit up my weight shifted the angle of the mattress and Wilson stirred, turning his head to the side, back arching for a moment in a still-asleep stretch.

I was all the way sitting up, legs over the side of the bed, stopped by the sudden pain from my leg shooting bolts of lightning to my brain. Obviously my leg didn’t like last night. My eyes squeezed shut and I brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose then let it fall. Automatically it went to my leg. I opened my eyes but they rolled to the ceiling. I made them, forced them to focus on the hall. Left of which was the bathroom. In which was the shower. A shower would feel good. 

My mind started to wander. I grabbed it like it was going to run for a cliff, clinging to its proverbial arm, promising there were better, faster, ways to hurt myself, just so long as you don’t jump of that cliff and think about . . . think about—no, I’m not thinking about sex. It’s kind of hard though, all sticky and naked and nostalgic, aching in places I haven’t ached in a while. I’m not thinking about Wilson lying naked in the bed next to me at this very moment. Not thinking about the feeling of his tongue sliding up the inside of my thigh. Not even remotely thinking about how it felt to run my fingers through his pubic hair, sliding around his cock, hearing the wonderful sound that ensued, far from it. No attention was drawn to the fact that I’d kissed his brow afterwards and wrapped an arm around him. 

Bruises. I’m sure I left bruises.

Quite suddenly, while thinking about Wilson being naked, it became obvious I was too. I looked down at myself. My mutilated ragged thigh, which he didn’t seem to mind, mocked these happy, maybe happy, feelings. I could just roll back into the sheets . . . wake him up and kiss his still sleepy lips, wrap my arms around him and do my best to tangle our legs together hopelessly. Warm. Close to me. We’d start to rock together. Slow at first. He’d moan. I could practically taste him on my lips, taste the soft skin between his ribs, god I never knew I had such a good memory for tastes. My eyes suddenly snapped open and I exhaled heavily.

Damnit.

I loosened my hand where I’d had it twisting around the sheet. Great, I had the start of an erection, which is somehow more painfully noticeable while in bed with another man. Of course that’s when the phone rang.

“Shit,” I hissed, grabbing wildly for the phone, half getting up before falling back against the bed, hopping on my left leg, hand finally finding the receiver.

“Whoever this is you’re fired as of right now,” I answered in the closest I could come to a whisper as I eased my right foot to the floor, gritting my teeth, throwing a panicked glance over my shoulder to see if Wilson had woken up. His eyes were opening.

“What?” Chase’s voice, there was a pause, “I am?”

“It’s early—why the hell are you calling now?” I asked, still in a whisper, bringing a hand to my head, “Weren’t we at the same party?”

“By my calendar it’s Saturday too, it’s not exactly fair but what does my opinion matter?”

“Never did— _ what’s _ the problem?”

“A patient, Cuddy needs you at the hospital.”

“No. I’m sleeping.”

“So was I! Cuddy said for me to tell you that if you liked your job you have to come in, something about a patient complaint, she said she’d explain when you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I stopped him, hand falling from my forehead, “No choice, got it,” I suppressed a sigh, asking instead, “Why are you the one calling anyway?”

“Because I’m here,” he said shortly. After a tense pause I decided now wasn’t the best time to offer a concerned “why?”.

“Can I tell her you’ll be here?” he asked questioningly and I could almost hear his impatient shrug.

“Fine.”

I hung the phone up. Love is in the details. Usually I’d ask to hear them. I get patient complaints all the time. And unless hell’s dropped to a pleasant sixty below zero, I never answer to them. But today I wanted out of here. I wasn’t good at this. Barely functional at it with Stacy, worse now.

I felt the sheet strain under me followed by a low groan and the sheet over my lap was pulled away. I grabbed it back, covering my still somewhat hard cock.

“What time is it?” I heard behind me in the strangled way people say things while stretching.

“8:00,” I answered in a murmur. I felt his hand on my back suddenly, in stark contrast between the cold air he’d let in and the startling heat two human bodies can produce. 

“Was that the phone?” he asked me, looking up from the pillows, “I thought I—”

“I have to take a shower.”

I scanned the room for my pants again, heard him ask, “Work?”

“Yep,” I snatched my boxers, put my feet through the leg holes and pulled them up as I hopped to my feet. I glanced back at him. Hair tostled, skin warm, eyes looking up at me with a question, wondering what I was doing. I knew my leg hurt and I needed that to stop. I was also overwhelmed and my reaction, which I was only partially willing to acknowledge, was to run.

Standing up, my head screamed with the pain in my leg. I tested the toes of my right foot but my weight quickly fell back to my left leg as I gritted my teeth, really trying to keep myself from screaming. Needed my cane. I grabbed for the end of the bed, taking one dragging step forward before limping to the doorway. More falling than anything. But I made it.

Here are the two great things about the living room—my Vicodin, or at least the bottle I was working through now, was there, on the coffee table, and the second great thing is my cane is currently located there. I went for the pills first. Swallowed one. Found the cane with my eyes. Headed for the shower like I planned. I needed to be clean. Needed to scrub my skin for an hour and see if then, maybe then, I can think about some other words besides, sex, naked, wet, sticky, hungry—well, I was hungry, that part was okay to think about. But still, the shower was paramount.

I turned on the water, dropped my boxers and got in, gasping as the cold water hit me. Both my arms were out to either side of me, holding me steady in the middle of the shower, water that was slowly heating up hitting me dead-on. I was holding most of my weight off my right leg, the water coursing down it felt incredible.

Slowly, water swirling down the drain at my feet, I started to feel the Vicodin take effect and I’m able to open my eyes. I pushed the wet hair from my face and turned around so the water hit my back. It’s finally hot.

I hate cold showers. I hate shivering, wrapping my arms around myself, fingers and toes slowly turning to ice and your own teeth starting to chatter so much you think you’ve chipped one or ten of them. The human body isn’t supposed to get that cold. It has an average temperature which works out great for it. Anything else is just bad, that’s why people turn blue and go into hypothermic shock because the ice has sucked all their body heat right out of them. The shock alone can make it hard to breath. Impossible even. Stops you from making any noise. Don’t worry about crying, you can’t do that either.

I sighed heavily and tried to concentrate on just the hot water washing over my tired muscles but my mind twisted backward and I tried to shut it out but I could hear my dad’s voice. God, what would he think of me now?

“House?” I suddenly heard outside the door, snapping me from my thoughts.

“Yeah?!” I shouted so he could hear me past the water, noticing goose-bumps on my arms, “What?!”

“You okay?” the voice is closer, he’d come inside the bathroom.

“I’ve been doing this awhile, I think I can take a shower by myself!”

“When do you have to be at work?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes, “What?! I can’t hear you!”

“Right,” he said, voice quieter, meaning he was getting further away, “I’ll make something to eat,”

I turned off the water. He was trying to make me uncomfortable, smothering me with a generous breakfast while plotting to get me in bed again. Caring bastard. Why bother making the bed, we can have a quick one before going to work, show up smelling like sex. I stood dripping in the shower for a minute, swearing I could hear my own snide thoughts echoing off the tiles. Why was I doing this? Why wasn’t I doing this? I got out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my waist. Another five minutes and I’m dressed.

Wilson was in the kitchen, wearing a t-shirt, my pink shirt, and boxers.

“That’s my shirt,” I accused, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

He dropped two pieces of toast on a plate with, if I remember them right, two eggs. Over easy.

“The other one was dirty,” he explained with a small smile, “You don’t mind do you?”

My eyes focused on the plate then went back up to him. He looked happy. He was smiling. This was weird. No scowl. No glare. No sad lost puppy look.

“Get your own clothes. Unless you don’t mind smelling like me,” I answered, limping to the fridge, “I abide by the clean-ish rule when it comes to clothes,” the cold air of the fridge met my face and I bit at my lip, squinting at what appeared to be a bottle of orange juice in the fridge.

Grabbing it, I closed the door and his eyes met mine as I looked over at him.

There’s that smile again. He looked different. Happy. His skin just seemed to radiate like someone had just remembered they could plug him in. His eyes were bright. He looked amazing. For a moment my eyes locked onto his and I felt the scowl fall off my face, transfixed.

“How did you make this so fast?” I asked, shaking myself loose, grabbing a cup from the cupboard. Plastic. Plastic cups are better than glass. That way you can throw them against a wall and they won’t break.

“Huh?” he shrugged, picking up a spatula and turning back to the stove, “Just that good, I guess,”

I eyed the eggs suspiciously, not remembering buying eggs or bread, at least not on my budget. So many more important things to buy than food. Alcohol, for instance. Pills constitute solid food. 

I took my eggs to the living room. Sat down. The thought that I should get a table, or at least some chairs, crossed my mind. Took the pill bottle and threw two in my mouth. I glanced into the kitchen, bouncing the fork in my hand, and watched Wilson finish his own breakfast as I swallowed them. My eyes dropped and my hand tightened around my fork, taking a deep breath before looking up again. The shirt almost looked too big for him. Not to mention it just seemed strange to see Wilson wearing something wrinkled. The pink looked nice though. Having been close to him, having kissed him, slept with him, made him more human.

Wilson came and sat down next to me. I kept my eyes from his bare legs and definitely away from his boxers.

“Cuddy wants me in right away,” I told him, clearing my throat then shaking some pepper over my eggs, “Probably leave as soon as I can.”

He took a bite, nodding, “I figured.”

“It’s a patient,” I mumbled with a shrug, picking up a piece of toast, “Something, a complaint . . . I dunno . . .”

“Right,” he said, “Well, I’ll just come with you then,” he said, pushing his fork through his food in a distracted way, “I’ve got some paperwork I could do.”

I nodded and kept eating, not needing details. Cancer patients are very demanding. I picked up my cup of orange juice and downed the whole thing at once, “We need to go get all your crap over here. So you can stop raiding my closet.”

He laughed a little, eating in silence for a moment. I noticed his brow furrow slightly, his chest rising in a deep inhale and my eyes wandering down from his face to the open collar of my shirt. His brown eyes, illuminated in a way that brought out their deep copper almost gold tones glanced over at me in a guarded way and he paused before saying, “After last night I wasn’t sure if the offer still stood.”

“Something bad about last night?”

“No,” he responded, “Last night was great, I just—”

“Just what?”

“I don’t want to rush anything for you,”

“I think I can handle it.”

“Can you?”

“We’ve lived together before.”

He hesitated, mouth open, then closed it, licking his lips, “First time I was with someone, someone other than a woman and it was clear, suddenly, why I felt the way I did,” he set his fork down and turned to look at me intensely, “I knew my life wouldn’t be the same. It freaked me out. I just thought,” he shook his head, biting as his lower lip, “I thought you might be feeling the same way.”

“We had sex,” I said, leveling my gaze with his, “We didn’t get married. Though knowing you, I shouldn’t expect to wait too long.”

“Fine. Forget it. I just thought you’d want to talk about it.”

“Nope,” I put my fork down, “Save it for when we try anal. Are you a top or bottom?”

He turned away from me. I was a jerk. He should expect me to be, right? If not, he should know, know that I’m dangerous. But then why did I feel sick? When all I wanted to do was hold him again, forget about work, and go back to bed. 

He cleared his throat, “Right,” he took a bite, “I’ll get cleaned up, we can go.”

“Mr. Cockburn.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the name of the patient that’s in my office, right now, with a very expensive lawyer.”

“Aren’t they all expensive?”

“House.”

“ _ What?!” _

“It’s  _ your _ patient.”

“I never had a patient named Cockburn,” I explained, coming to a halt where Cuddy was standing in the middle of the hall, “I  _ definitely _ would have remembered that name.”

Wilson, who had been walking at my side, glanced once at me, acknowledging, I think, that we’d see each other later, and kept walking down the hall, briefcase swinging at his side.

“Wilson,” Cuddy called after him, making him stop, turn questioningly, “I might need you here for testimony.”

“Testimony? I don’t see House’s patients with him.”

“But you were in contact with him yesterday around the same time.”

“What’s this guy got against him?”

“More importantly,” I interrupted, leaning heavily on my cane, “Who the hell is he?”

“You really don’t remember?” Cuddy asked insistently, hand planted angrily at her hip.

“Remind me.”

She flipped open the chart, “Admitted complaining of a rash, you took him in exam room two, names Bertram Cockburn—you’re saying you don’t remember  _ anything _ about him?”

Paused. Grudgingly searched my memories. Morphine. Pills. Too many pills. I remembered something about tweed. The rest was jumbled. But clinic duty is always jumbled. “Vaguely.”

“I’m not joking around here, House,” she said, rolling her head to side impatiently, the file dropped to her side, ‘We know you don’t give a damn about your patients but you can at least remember a symptom if not their faces or personal likes or dislikes.”

A few tense moments crawled by where I met Cuddy’s disapproving gaze, silent, offering her no explanation.

“You don’t remember,” Wilson said almost distantly.

“House . . .” Cuddy started.

“Could I have a second with House?” Wilson interjected again, earning the same impatient gaze I was enjoying from Cuddy himself.

“I  _ need _ him in my office,” she warned.

“It’ll just be a minute,” he assured Cuddy, throwing a significant glance at me before starting down the hall to my office. I followed.

Once in my office I felt a little better but it didn’t change the fact that I still felt like someone had kicked me in the gut. I got my pills out of my coat pocket, fingers closing around its familiar, comforting shape, too early for another one. At least that’s what part of my brain said. In the time it took for Wilson’s eyes to dilate, pill had met hand, and hand had met mouth.

“What was that?” Wilson asked, dropping his briefcase and putting his hands on his hips, the dark of the office silhouetting his figure against the light of the hall, “What’s going on?”

My heart was sort of jumping into my throat at the moment. Which made it really hard to speak. And what made it worse was that I’d followed him in here under the impression that in setting myself in front of Wilson’s scrutinizing gaze there’d suddenly appear a solution in which I hadn’t taken so many pills at once yesterday that I was now a week ahead of needing another script. I wasn’t talking about this. It’s not a problem, relieving pain isn’t a problem. The only problem was that guy’s dick turning green. Not my fault. His fault.

“House,” Wilson prodded, “Why don’t you remember this guy?”

“He had an STD,” I retorted, huffing air out my nose, waving my cane in the direction, roughly, of the clinic, “That’s not much of a distinguishing feature when it comes to the clinic.”

“Not every patient with an STD ends up in Cuddy’s office with a lawyer, that’s a distinguishing feature,” His arms dropped from his hips and he was looking at me with two raised eyebrows, bouncing on this heels with a kind of nervous energy that changed the expression on his face from curious to pleading. “ _ What _ happened?” he asked, taking an imploring step toward me.

“He was just an asshole, barely capable of keeping his own penis from falling off, hardly worth my time . . . yeah, okay, so I don’t remember him, that’s not a crime,” I ran a hand over my mouth, cheeks rough with stubble, not looking at him, “Most of yesterday afternoon was like that, actually,” I said eyes turned speculatively to the ceiling, biting my lip, “Considering how many pills I took before going on clinic duty, that’s not really surprising.”

“How many?”

“Um . . . four . . . five,” I speculated, “Hard to say, can’t remember that either.”

“House,” he sighed, rubbing a hand quickly over the back of his neck, snapping it back into a fist, “Why did you—”

“Because my leg hurt!”

“Right, that’s the only reason?”

“Not enough?”

“Frankly, no, people don’t usually take _four or five_ _Vicodin_ when they’re in pain,”

“I couldn’t concentrate,”

“Because of your leg?”

“Because I was thinking about you!” I shouted, my cane swaying under my right hand as I exhaled heavily, closing my eyes.

I know he had taken a step forward. Wilson wouldn’t exactly be flattered to be the motive behind my accelerated drug use. Begs the question why he’s still here. 

“And the morphine?” he asked, standing in front of me now.

“Is that another kind of pain killer?” I asked.

“The morphine would have still been in your system, House—you took it the other night, and in the morning? And then took all that Vicodin, are you insane?”

“Is that what we’re trying to discern now? Or should we be concentrating on how to get me out of this?”

“We? What am I going to do?”

“You could vouch for my pain level yesterday.”

“No.”

“What?”

“It wouldn’t work, I can’t just, it’s—” he brought a hand to his forehead, “I came here to do paperwork, I can’t keep doing this and neither can you for Christ’s sake you’re going to kill yourself.”

“Morphine’s not going to kill me.”

“Alright, you’re invincible, I feel better now.”

“I didn’t do anything to this guy, he’s just . . . overreacting.”

“Either way, you have to go talk to him.”

“Are you coming with?”

“No,” he retorted, “If Cuddy needs me for anything she can call me.”

Paused. Angry. “What if I need you?”

“Then you can call me.”

“Fine,” I said, cane tapping on the ground, “Hope you have fun, I know I will.”

Wilson started out the door, choosing not to react to the sarcastic comment, then stopped, one hand on the handle, “House,” he said, not turning to face me. In his profile I could see his eyes close for a second, then look up to the ceiling, “It’s going to get worse and worse, you know that right? You’ll take more and more drugs until . . . until something happens, you OD or get hurt—it’s the same downward spiral all drug addicts experience because it doesn’t, and they know that it doesn’t, end well, ever,” he turned all the way to face me, eyes deep and wide and overwhelming, “I’m in the spiral now too, House.”

“You’re stupid,” I said quietly as an explanation, watching him frown in reaction, a disbelieving shine refracting off his eyes, “And . . . if you’re so worried, you can back out now.”

_ Because I don’t want to hurt you _ , I thought.

“You—” his voice came to a shaking halt as he looked stiffly at his feet, “You really want that?” he took three steps toward me, so he was out of the light from the hall, for some reason finding it easier to talk that way.

“No,” I replied, straightening myself as he stood in front of me.

Two brown eyes glanced quickly over his shoulder before he took the remaining steps left between us and Wilson suddenly turned back into the living-breathing-warm person that I’d woken up next to this morning. His now familiar scent reaching my nostrils, his soft skin within reach. I wish he’d step back. I don’t need the conflicting emotions right now. Wish he’d just stop talking and hold me. Scared.

“Then stop this,” he implored, “Stop trying to push me away. I can help. I want to help.”

“You want this?” I asked, voice lower, quieter.

“Yeah.”

“You want a relationship with a miserable drug addict?” I reiterated, pausing, eyes shifting to the side, “Are you sure you’re not the one with the problem?”

“I know you,” he said, “And a miserable drug addict is  _ not  _ who you are,” he seemed angry, “Maybe you’ll see that someday,” he almost laughed at himself, “Who you really are is . . . who I . . . “ his eyes closed and he sighed, biting back words, then set his face, “Just don’t give up on this yet,” he licked his lips, “We’ll figure this out.”

I searched his eyes, only seeing earnest caring, the usual worry, and a small spark of something different, something maybe I was too stubborn, too selfish to notice before, “I don’t want to hurt you,” I finally said out loud, not able to meet his eyes, “But I don’t know how to stop this.”

I felt shaky, arms and legs suddenly trembling all around me. Wilson took my hand, then brought his other hand to my face, thumb sliding over my scruffy jaw-line, making me look at him. My left hand found its way to his right forearm, pulling slightly, making him step another half-step closer, letting my hand drop so it rested on his hip. Needed to steady myself. Needed him. I shut my eyes against the light of the hall, against who might be walking by to see us together, and found his lips in my dim office. It’s brief, enough to get my breath back. Our lips came apart, his hand locked over the warmth of my pulse, he let our foreheads fall together for a moment then said, “You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, then he sighed, maybe remembering where he was, “We should be careful.”

I nodded and he stepped back, “Talk to Cuddy, just be honest, and I’ll find you later.”

He left me feeling human. Vulnerable. Which is exactly what I didn’t need. I wanted another pill. Badly. 


	6. Some Things Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end but maybe not the end, there could always be a follow-up fic . . . but I said all I needed to say here. Thanks all for reading. Comments are love.

The guy looked like he’d stepped out of a Wodehouse novel. I’d ask him what he was doing over here, why he didn’t miss ol’England, but the question became unnecessary as soon as he opened his mouth and instead of a dulcet English accent there was a high, nasal and definitely American accent to go along with the American waistline. I entered Cuddy’s office and repressed a scoff at the patches on his elbows and the fine shoes sticking out of too-short pants, figuring the scowl on his face was a permanent fixture, not just because of yesterday.

“Dr. House,” Cuddy announced me, “You remember Mr. Cockburn,” she nodded toward the fat man sitting in front of her desk, “And this is his lawyer, Mr. Bassett.”

The lawyer, like most lawyers, had the uncanny ability to camouflage himself into the backward just so they could startle people when they came out of no where, the content smirk on his face a perpetual gloat for the fact that he can or has memorized volumes of the most boring books on the planet. Mr. Bassett did this appearing-from-thin-air-thing, drawing my attention for a moment. It was that or he’d just stepped out from behind Mr. Cockburn.

Cuddy folded her hands in front of her at her desk, the only visible sign of tension showing in the lines at the corner of her mouth, “Mind taking a seat, Dr. House?”

“I’d rather stand,” I answered.

Mr. Bassett stepped forward. On closer inspection it was clear the nice suit and smug demeanor were obviously borrowed from someone else, maybe loaned out for this special occasion, he looked about twenty years old.

“Dr. House, my client is charging you with battery and assault—”

“What? I never touched him.”

“My client claims you assaulted him, his statement’s not in question, he claims your conduct was unprofessional and believes it warrants attention for his sake and those of your future patents.”

I turned to Cuddy, “Did you understand any of that?”

Mr. Cockburn turned in his chair to face me, face round and red, eyes squinty under his heavy glasses, “You thought I wouldn’t do it? I said I’d go to your administrator, and here I am—not that I’ve gotten any kind of explanation for your behavior as a medical professional,” he laughed, a very ugly sound, “I wanted to order a drug test but apparently you’re already on drugs.”

“Dr. House takes a prescribed dose of medication to aid in pain relief for his leg, it’s all certified.”

“He didn’t seem in pain yesterday, Dr. Cuddy,” Mr. Cockburn said in a satisfied way, “You might be interested to know some of the things he said—sex in exam rooms, allusions of elicit, unethical behavior, inappropriate language, insults about me and the way I dress.”

I frowned. Did I make fun of his clothes? Huh.

“I know this was a difficult experience, Mr. Cockburn,” Cuddy offered in a careful, soothing voice as I seriously had to keep myself from giggling at the name, “But I assure you, this hospital is not run in any kind of disorderly or inappropriate manner. Dr. House’s actions were precipitated by pain in his leg and I can only express my deepest apologies for any trouble this has caused you,” she looked over at me with a staggering, reproachful gaze.

“What she said,” I said to him, folding both my hands on top of my cane, “Going to call off your lawyer now?”

“Mr. Cockburn,” Cuddy continued, “I can assure you Dr. House will be punished, I will not overlook his behavior.”

Mr. Cockburn stood up, a very difficult action for him, at least not to take the chair with him, and in a huffing voice said, “I’ll be getting back to you, Dr. Cuddy,” He directed his beady little eyes to me but most of the tension was in his waistcoat’s buttons straining across his huge belly. I forced my eyes from them while forcing my upper lip to stop curling in disgust, “You’re a terrible human being, Dr. House.”

“I know,” I responded, “I’m starting therapy.”

The fat man and his lawyer left. I sighed in relief.

“House,” Cuddy’s voice. I cringed. “What did you say to that man exactly?”

“Um . . .”

“Sex in an exam room? What was he talking about?”

“No clue,” I said, “Can I go now?” I didn’t wait for an answer, which saved me the task of showering her with gratitude for her always unfathomable generosity, starting out the door.

“House. Stop right there.”

“Wow,” I said, frozen mid-step, “It works—very cop-like. Ever consider a job in law enforcement? You know, if the whole hospital administrator thing doesn’t work out,”

“My job’s not the one in question.”

“It’s not? People having sex in an exam room seems like a pretty serious breach in hospital policy,” she was staring at me in a dumbfounded way, which was perfect for my quick getaway, “I’m going home,” I said, “I don’t have to be here.”

“House, not one more step.”

“Gosh,” I said, stopping, “You could make me do anything—next time do something kinky, please?”

“You don’t seem to realize how serious this is, House,” she proclaimed, obviously trying another tactic in which the plan was to question my intelligence, “You aren’t aware of this because you certainly didn’t ask who the hell that was, but he happens to be a very wealthy person, with prestige enough to warrant extreme measures for the  _ embarrassment _ you caused him. What if he had had a sea of lawyers, or what if it was ten dissatisfied patients at  _ once _ —frankly my office would collapse under the weight.”

“That’s the thing about lawyers, “ I said, “Increasing their numbers only increases their volume, their total mass remains the same,” my cane bounced twice on the carpet, “ _ Plus _ the fact that I didn’t do anything to him—if he liked his penis so much he should have taken better care of it.”

“He says you were acting high,”

“He doesn’t know what my high is.”

“You were taking your designated dosage of Vicodin,” she said it like it was a joke, didn’t see it too funny though, “You haven’t done that since day one! When I told you about him you had no idea what I was talking about—you were  _ there _ , House, you  _ treated _ this guy—and you can’t remember what you  _ did _ or what you  _ said _ ! Doesn’t that raise any red flags?”

I hesitated. Not for the first time today.

Cuddy’s face softened slightly, an action which meant her jaw loosened and her brow relaxed, making the lines in her attractive face disappear, “This is my fault,” I rolled my eyes, “I  _ saw _ you yesterday—you were acting strange, even for you,” she brushed a hand over her cheek, “That’s beyond managing pain, House—you were doing it to get high. You were on drugs, god only knows how much, in my hospital, with my patients that I’m responsible for,” her eyes closed for a few seconds as she pressed her lips together, “Why did you do it?”

Well.

I hadn’t expected her to actually ask why. She was pissed because of the complaint, of her office being invaded, because I was testing her tolerance for narcotic abuse in a hospital setting, because she was torn between needing me as a doctor and wanting to put me away somewhere. She knows which one is the right answer.

“That information,” I answered, “Isn’t relevant to the situation, and also there’s that whole remaining professionally objective that negates such personal inquiries,” she continued to stare at me, her dark hair framing her face in shadow, making her eyes look even brighter than they were, “Since when do you care anyway?”

“I care,” she replied, voice cracking in a barely audible level, “But if there’s something going on, something personal, that’s precipitating . . .  _ this _ ,” her hand waved at me and apparently my drug addiction, “It is relevant.”

“Trust me,” I mumbled, “You probably don’t want to know.”

“Fine,” she said, “This isn’t over House.”

“Over for today though?” I inquired pleadingly.

She nodded solemnly. I turned around, only making it a few steps before she stopped me again.

“You didn’t really have sex in an exam room . . . did you?”

“Yeah I did,” I answered casually, drawing in a deep breath as she came around my right side, facing me.

“What?” she exhaled sharply, folding her arms across her chest, “With whom?”

“Wilson,” I said with a lovesick sigh, eyes directed to the ceiling in rapture, “God he’s incredible.”

“Right,” Cuddy laughed, “The day you and Wilson have sex is the day I resign and leave the hospital to you.”

I saved the ironic smile till I was outside her office.

_ It’s all mine then, Cuddy _ , I thought on the way out. Assuming I don’t lose my job. My license. The thought caused my breath to catch in my throat, the feeling of someone wringing out a dirty rag twisting in my chest. I didn’t like not remembering. I didn’t like not being in control. I’d never lost my memory while at work before. 

I really wanted to see Wilson. 

“Whoa,” I skidded to a sudden clumsy stop, face to face with Chase.

“House,” he exclaimed, “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I grumbled, “Not like I have trouble walking or anything.”

“I was trying to find you.”

“For some reason?”

“That patient of yours just collapsed outside the hospital.”

Interesting, “Hope it’s nothing serious,” I said. I did hope it was something serious. What better way to get in someone’s good graces.

I ran into Wilson at the nurses station, having ditched Chase so he could admit the globular man, and found him handing in some charts, filling in some last minute pieces of information with his awkward left-handed script. He glanced up when he saw me.

“Hey,” he said.

“Finished?”

“Almost.”

“Drastic turn of events.”

He only looked slightly panicked, “What?”

“The guy with the lawyer is getting admitted. Perfect opportunity to avail myself.”

“Oh,” less panic, “So you’re staying?”

“Afraid so,” I said, leaning on the desk. My hand was still in my pocket. I drew my fingers tighter around the bottle. Needed more. 

“Before I do,” I leaned, shifting my weight off my right leg in a way that pressed my left leg and side into his. If I flared my nostrils I could smell me on him. He hadn’t had a shower. Very exciting in an animalistic, want to bare my teeth, raise my hackles and mark my territory kind of way, “I need a refill.”

“You’re out.”

“It’s why I’m asking.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“You want me to say please now?”

“House.”

“Why are you snippy?” I frowned, “I can make it worth your while,” I winked at him.

He rolled his eyes, “Yeh, that’s not how this is going to work,” he forcefully put down the last file on the desk, the sides of his neck turning red, bad sign, “Do you see the issue in that or do I have to spell it out?”

I thought about it for a moment, “You could spell it out. Slowly,” I nodded my head once, “While writing a script.”

“No, House.”

“What is the problem exactly?”

He lowered his voice drastically, “I’m not giving you drugs in exchange for sex. No.”

I glanced over his shoulder to see Brenda staring at us. I glared at her, “ It’s rude to stare.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, frozen.

“Don’t be,” I said, “You win the bet.” 

“I didn’t hear anything,” she said, eyebrows raised, picking up the files.

Wilson sighed, “Brenda,” he put his pen in his pocket, turning to face her, “Thank you. Dr. House is not as funny as he thinks he is.”

She seemed unconvinced. I narrowed my eyes at her. Who cared what she thought. Wilson probably. I rolled my eyes, “Yes, bad joke, bad House,” then to Wilson, “Happy?”

He took my arm instead, leading me away from the desk and down the hall, “Thanks for that.”

“She’s nosy but not conniving,” I said, trying to be reassuring, “Plus didn’t you already tell Cameron?”

“I choose to believe Cameron wouldn’t out me, us, to the whole hospital.”

“Not without a cake,” I mused.

Both his hands went to his face and he groaned. I waited for him to emerge. He needed a moment.

“I’ll write you a script.”

His hands dropped, allowing me to meet his eyes.

“Chase could do it,” I said. He looks so tired. He looks done. I hate that look on him. And maybe because we crossed that threshold, made the connection that first night outside his hotel, all of it allowing me to connect the decaying dots of all my bullshit with the slow deterioration of Wilson’s spirit, I can’t help but see his pain. I can’t ignore that now. Hurt to realize I had. For years.

“No, it’s fine.”

He was doing what he did. Stuffing down anger and disappointment. Giving me what I wanted no matter how he felt. I chewed at my lower lip, “I can’t detox with a new patient.”

“Unadvisable.”

“But afterward,” I said, he looked up, “It’s an option.”

He frowned, “What is?”

“At home. Not here. Rapid detox to get through the worst of it. Then you can monitor me afterward. Try something new for pain management. Maybe yoga?”

“You’re serious?”

“Not the yoga part. Maybe the pants though,” he looked baffled, reaching behind him to the wall to steady himself, I shrugged, “Fix the guy. Detox. Get Cuddy and the lawyer off my back.”

“Hold on,” he crossed his arms, “That’s why you would do this?”

“Is that what it looks like?”

“It looks like you’re in deep shit with Cuddy and a pissed off patient, the amount of drugs you’ve been using has increased significantly, maybe even to the point that it’s entered your awareness as a worrying thing and sure, I can hope, maybe that I fit into the equation somehow, if not just as the reason you’re kreening off the rails.”

“What rails? Why do I want to be on rails?”

“It’s my fault.”

“It’s not.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you back, I shouldn’t be doing this--.”

“It is not your fault!” I shouted, pushing him with one hand against the wall of the hallway, “The only reason I would consider getting off the Vicodin is you, not the patient, or Cuddy, “ I lowered my voice, loosening my hand on his shoulder, “You were right,” lowered my eyes, then back to his, “I got scared. Sleeping with you, waking up next to you,” I swallowed hard against a swell of emotions, watching his eyes grow wider, mouth open, standing too close to him, not caring that we were at work, not caring if anyone saw, “I was a jerk.”

His eyebrows jumped up to his brow, mouth closed, headshaking slightly, “You could have told me that this morning.”

“Better here. It was gay enough waking up with your cum all over me.”

“It’s . . . an adjustment.”

“Obviously,” I inhaled deeply, wanting, needing him to understand, understand that there was so much to lose, too much to lose, that’d I’d give him my heart, all of me, if that was enough, if he would take it, “I don’t want to hurt you,” I adjusted my cane, shifting to use his arm as a support, “I’m terrified that I will. That I’ll screw this up,” I told him, “The only way I know how to not do that is to get the drugs out of my system.”

“Ok,” his brown eyes relaxed slightly, looking from side to side, leaning in close to inhale my smell, “Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Do you know what this means?” 

“Pain and misery?”

“I’ll help you. We’ll figure it out,” something in his voice, through the dissipation of anger and panic, was hopeful. The careful, tentative hope often employed in matters that involved me and drugs and my other personality deficits. 

“You’re fond of saying that,” I said, moving my hand up his arm, to his chest, feeling the heavy pulse at his collar bone.

“I am. Decades of experience being your friend,” he had placed his hand on my hips slightly tugging me to him, “However,” one of his thumbs hooked under the waist of my jeans, “I can’t show you how appreciative I am. We are at work,” I ignored him and brushed my lips over his, barely making contact.

“You’re right,” I kissed him again and my eyes rolled shut. 

“I am often right,” he nipped at my upper lip. 

I growled deep in my throat and pulled back, “The jerky-ness will only get worse.”

“I think I can tough it out,” he said, angling to kiss my neck then pulled back, pupils dilated, “Do you need me to stay?”

“No,” I stole one more kiss, “Shouldn’t take long,” I stepped backward, “See you at home later?”

“Yeh,” he let his arms swing to his side, looking completely adorable and awkward walking backward away from me. I deviously smiled to myself checking out the bulge in the front of his pants, which he noticed me doing, “I’ll walk to the store down the street later, get something for dinner.”

“Get out of here,” I told him. It was ridiculous; overly saccharine prolonged goodbyes at each other’s lockers. Work to do. And an excruciating detox to go through after that. 

Saturday mornings are supposed to be about the sugary sludge at the bottom of your cereal bowl, back-to-back cartoons, not putting on pants until absolutely necessary. Or staying naked and in bed with a warm, not oft without a tie oncologist who makes peculiar noises when you bite their nipples. That’s what Saturdays are. Not being at work with a male model for Scrubs Monthly. 

And the other two. The other two?

“What are they doing here?” walking through the glass door to three tired faces.

Chase was at the board, fumbling with my markers, “Cuddy called them.”

“An important case,” Foreman, in t-shirt and jeans looking impatient.

“All hands on deck,” Cameron sighed, taking a large gulp of coffee.

“Good she isn’t exaggerating,” I said, standing with my hand out to take the marker from Chase who handed it over with an annoyed look, retreating to the table where he sat farthest away from Cameron and the board, “Though it’s good, all the more likely we can all get back to,” uncapped the pen, “Whatever it was we were all doing,” grinned to myself, “Ok. Fifty-four year old male, tweed-clad, obese, presents with--”

“Weren’t you all on a date last night?”

Turned. Foreman. Cameron was glaring at him.

“Yes. We were,” turned back to the board, “Presents with--”

“How did it go?”

“Feeling left out?” Cameron asked, “Come on, let’s just focus on the job.”

“Just curious. You can all barely look at each other. Not the best way to work together on a case.”

“Foreman, it’s private,” Chase said. 

“Uh oh,” I said. Ah, so cute. Trying to protect me, “That’s the one thing you could have said that’s going to make it worse, “ I let my arm drop to my side with a sigh, looking to Foreman, “Ok, ok, ok, you got us. Yes we were on a date. A double date. And yes, it was an awkward, giant leap away from normal workplace boundaries. We’ll never be the same.”

Foreman looked nonplussed, “What happened?”

“Wilson drank too many Dixie cups of wine. Threw up on my shoes.”

“Wilson?”

“Yeh, my date.”

He laughed, “Fine, don’t tell me.”

“See Cameron?” I glanced over at her, her mouth was open, “There is no room in his heart for love.”

“Not that it matters,” she said, “We should just work on the case. Keep our private lives separate.”

“Now she says it,” I said to Chase who looked alarmed, “Little late but sure, I appreciate the sloppy attempt at repairing our,” gulped dramatically, “Friendship?”

Suddenly Wilson was outside the door. But didn’t come in. Looked at me. I looked at him. Waited. Looked at the kids. All the ducklings were staring at him too. I beckoned him in. He bit at his lip, shaking his head. I rolled my eyes. He came in.

“The,” he pulled his keychain out of his pocket, “Keys,” he held them out to me at arms length, like we weren’t just almost making out in the hallway, “I can take a taxi home,” he shifted his eyes to the curious little ducks at the table, “To your place.”

“Thanks, honey,” I said, taking the keys.

“Ok,” he cleared his throat, “Hi all,” waving weakly, “Bye all.”

He left and I watched him leg it down the hall out of sight. Cute how he got so nervous. Made it all the more amazing to see him completely unnervous and unglued. Strange how that works. Love how that works.

Turned back to the board, pushing the keys into my pocket, “Presents with syncope--”

“Wow.”

Foreman. Sure of it.

“You weren't joking.”

“Nope, he fell,” I raised my forearm then tipped it at the elbow, “Right over. Chase didn’t even catch him.”

“He was across the clinic!” Chase proclaimed in a feeble attempt to clear his good name. Somehow he was oblivious to Foreman being invited into the House and Wilson Forever Fan Club.

“You and Wilson are dating.”

“A fact Cameron happened upon one day in the clinic by not knocking before entering a room. Setting this whole comedy of errors in motion. And since I’m sure you’re not surprised we can continue with the consult--minority to minority.”

“I’m not surprised. I’m glad. Wilson is good for you. And it’s about time you came out of the closet. At your age.”

I glared at him, “Out of the closet? Must you be so black and white?”

Cameron made an exasperated sound, reading from the chart in front of her, “Syncope. Muscle weakness, Tremors. Anything else? Chase?”

Chase refocused, “Uh, he came into the clinic for an STD.”

“Great,” I finished what I was writing, “I’m going to add irritability and memory issues.”

“Because he is suing you?” Chase questioned.

“No. Actual symptoms. He reacted very bizarrely to something that I may or may not have said or done.”

“If there is a neurological element we should do an MRI and check spinal fluid for infection.”

“In addition to all the usual fluid collection, lots of blood, lots of pee,” I said, “Go, do. If we cure this guy we will all still have jobs,” I put the marker down and went to my office. 

A short time later Cameron came to my office riding a wave of poorly concealed emotion and shaking trepidation. I had my headphones on, listening to “Comfortably Numb” and watched her step toward my desk like a deer, careful timid strides through tall grasses, fearfully eyeing the edge of the trees. She started talking before I took my headphones off. 

“ . . . is stable,” she finished as I slipped the headphones from my ears and settled them around my neck.

“Tests back yet?”

“Almost,” she had placed her hands on the back of the chair in front of my desk and tapped her fingers nervously, “Not sure why he’s improving. Suppose it’s a good sign. We haven’t done anything yet.”

I leaned back, lacing my fingers together over my lap, “Seems fishy to me . . .”

“He’s not faking.”

“I know.”

She nodded, took a step back, looking like she was going to leave then stopped with a sigh, “I just want to say I’m sorry.”

I frowned, “For?”

“Making that deal with you. Forcing you on that date,” she looked miserable, “It was stupid of me.”

“You reacted . . .” I inhaled deeply, setting my headphones on my desk and turning off the record player, “. . . poorly. And made some not great choices. A man’s character is judged by how he responds to having power--considering how you responded . . . I’d take a look inward..”

“Well it was,” she shrugged one shoulder, “A shock. I thought you were just trying to mess with me.”

I raised my eyebrows, “Nope, not everything is about you.”

She put both of her hands in the pockets of her labcoat and stared at the floor for a moment before saying, “Well I’m happy for you. And Wilson.”

“Really?”

“Yeh,” she hugged the file she was holding to her chest, “Just keep it out of the clinic exam rooms.”

I nodded and she smiled, turning to leave.

“Cameron,” I said after her, making her stop, “Blackmail me, or hurt Wilson, ever again, and you’re fired.”

>>>>>>>>>

“Good you’re still here,” I said, walking into Cuddy’s office.

“A natural reaction to my hospital being threatened,” she said, rummaging through her desk. 

“Don’t worry about it. I have a plan.”

“Faking your own death?”

“Nope. I’m going to cure the guy. Beg forgiveness. Then I’m getting of Vicodin. For good.”

She took a beat, her hand holding the bottle of aspirin she’d found, shocked into stillness like a squirrel looking both ways before crossing the street, “Huh?”

“I’m motivated. I think it’s time. Should make the guy happy. His lawyer too,” chewed at the inside of my cheek, “Plus if my hunch is right he may not be able to follow through with his threat anyway, due to his compromised cognitive state at the time.”

“Just telling him you’re going to get clean isn’t going to do it House.”

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you. And why I’m actually going to do it. Can I get some time off? Wilson may need some too.”

She sat back at her desk, “You’re actually serious.”

“Everyone is very surprised.”

“Well yeh.”

“People make choices all the time. Sometimes good ones. Why not me?”

“You love the pills.”

“True. It’s pretty one sided though.”

“I want to believe you. But until I see it . . .”

“Ask Wilson. He’s going to be helping me.”

“What changed?”

“Nothing,” I took a breath, realizing how this must sound to her, how despite it all, maybe there was part of her that cared, slightly, in a more than just a commodity way, about me. And about Wilson. “I just stopped asking a question and found an answer.”

She laughed, “What does that mean?”

“It means I have an actual reason to try.”

Wilson was the type of person to keep a box of Kleenex in his car. Always seemed odd to me. Isn’t that what sleeves are for? Driving home I noticed the tissue box as well as a pop top to a grape soda bottle tucked into a small compartment near the radio. I remember that pop top. A couple of years ago, right around the time he joined me at Princeton, I’d had him over to my place. He’d made some dinner as I played piano. Not actual songs, I couldn’t really read music, just playing what I felt. And I hadn’t noticed he’d come to stand next to me, grape soda in hand, watching my hands on the keys, fascinated. He’d sat down on the bench next to me. I’d enjoyed the physical contact and how he pretended to know how to play Heart and Soul. 

I opened my door and called, “Home!”

He stepped from the kitchen, “Hey! Just in time,” strode up to me, wiping his hands with a towel, kissing me quickly before I had the time to take my coat off, “How’d it go?”

“Please tell me we aren’t having tuna casserole.”

“Huh? No, steak, why?”

“Mercury poisoning.”

“From . . . tuna?”

“A lot of it.”

“Dear god.”

“Yeh, you know it’s excessive when you buy it by the case load.”

“Obsession can be dangerous,” Wilson chuckled, back in the kitchen, putting on oven mitts then asked, “So that’s it? Mercury poisoning means . . .”

“Confusion, memory issues, irritability . . .”

“Which means no case?”

“Apparently,” I leaned on the island, watching as he pulled a dish out of the oven, “Guy's wife died 8 months ago. He didn’t know how to cook anything else.”

Wilson shook his head, “Wow,” he pulled off the mitts, “That’s incredibly sad.”

“Yeh,” I said. It was. Even if the guy was a jerk that could have ruined everything. He was just another victim to the complete indifference of the universe. 

I grabbed a piece of vulnerable cheesy potato in the dish next to Wilson and popped it into my mouth. Mmm. Five cheese? God, Wilson.

“Hey!” he protested, “Can you use a fork? Or just wait till it’s all ready?,” I licked at my fingers, “I don’t know where your fingers have been.”

“Yes you do,” I said with a sly smile.

“Did I really miss living with you?” he asked, hopefully rhetorically.

“But I’m having sex with you now. Which means a lot more give to all of my taking.”

He smiled. God I loved seeing him smile. And even if it was an indifferent, unintentionally cruel universe, in a matter of days, from in front of his hotel, terrified of losing him, to now, bickering and together, everything had changed, the future had changed.

“So,” I said, stepping to stand next to him, putting a hand on his hip and resting my chin on his shoulder, “One more night of sex and drugs before the shit storm that tomorrow will bring?” I kissed his neck.

He leaned back into me, “Are you ready?”

“Cuddy gave us time off,” I turned him around so he could face me, putting a hand to his face, not sure about anything except for this, “We’ve wasted enough time already.” 

I kissed him. I was ready. 


End file.
